


Forbearance, Thy Name Is Malfoy

by Lorbender



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, BAMF Hermione Granger, Because Amortentia, Black Hermione Granger, Desi Harry Potter, Draco's ridiculous, Dubious Consent, Everyone is 16-ish, Four-house dream team, Harry's...Harry, Inter-House Unity, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Slytherins spank each other with a paddle, Smut, Sort Of, Soulmates, The Malfoys leave much to be desired as parents, The boys are idiots, We stan Ravenclaws in this house, also always in my fics, always in my fics, and sort of as comic relief, but tangentially, but we all knew that already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorbender/pseuds/Lorbender
Summary: "As his world collapsed around him, Draco Malfoy reflected that everything had been going just fine until Goyle dropped the wrong damn hair into the potion."He'd really just been trying to play a prank, a dumb practical joke like all the others he and Potter had lobbed at each other over the years like two crazed players of that Muggle game where everyone's heads went back and forth. But when everything in Draco Malfoy's life changes abruptly, and Potter suddenly has the power to hurt him, their contest of wills becomes something more—something that could fundamentally change the course of not only both their lives, but also their world.[On most likely permanent hiatus, subject to change.]
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99





	1. Amortenti—AAAAAAH NO GOD THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT TO DO

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first fic I've begun writing and posting in a very very long time, and on this account. It's very much a work in progress and I'm hoping I'll be able to finish it. Enjoy. Please.

As his world collapsed around him, Draco Malfoy reflected that everything had been going just fine until Goyle dropped the wrong damn hair into the potion.

He tried to take advantage of the moment by doing his best Troubled But Devastatingly Handsome Young Nobleman look, but his concentration was broken by Dean Thomas throwing a pie into Seamus Finnegan’s face.

“Oh, very good aim, Dean,” Lovegood said, smiling and ducking a pie coming the other direction. “They say lemon is helpful in fighting Nargles.”

Draco decided his best shot at getting out of this mess was to pretend as though none of this was his fault at all, which might be a bit difficult, because—and even he had to admit this—if one traced the logical cause and effect pattern back to its source, one would undoubtedly find one Troubled But Devastatingly Handsome Young Nobleman there. Through no fault of his own.

This current fight, however, was not his fault as far as he could tell. It had quite literally been there when he arrived in the Great Hall fifteen minutes before. But what had happened before he'd gotten _in_ the fracas was not currently Draco's biggest concern. No, he was worried about how to get _out_.

Against every instinct his tutors had drilled into him as a child— _No Draco, your elbows must never touch anything, don’t you know that dirtying one’s elbows is the greatest indignity that can be suffered by a pureblood wizard?—_ Draco got to his elbows and started to army-crawl out of the room.

His tutors had never been in this situation.

“Have you seen Potter anywhere?” he asked casually as he crawled past Lovegood’s feet.

“Oh, no, Draco,” Lovegood, who had a common and frustrating habit of calling everyone by their first names as if they were her friends, said. “I think Hermione had managed to subdue him for a while but then he got loose.”

“Fantastic, thanks,” Draco said, crawling past Pansy and Ron Weasley, who were circling each other in ever-tighter spirals, wands drawn, but neither of them appeared to have cast a spell. They seemed to be muttering threats at each other in...weird voices.

Of course, if he got out of this alive, he’d apparently owe Granger a life debt, but as far as Malfoys were concerned one could repay a life debt by not betraying someone and getting them killed, and Draco supposed grudgingly that he could restrain himself. Her teeth weren’t so big as they used to be. He was nearly out of the Great Hall now, and if he could just make it down to the dormitories and into his bedroom, and if he performed some good charmwork on his door, he’d be safe.

Draco hid around the corner from the entrance to the Hall, peeking around to be sure Potter wasn’t anywhere in the immediate vicinity. He felt a sudden pang of longing for the time Moody had turned him into a ferret. A lovely little ferret wouldn’t have to be afraid like this. He could just slink off and lie low for a while and make friends with some of the castle’s rats. Draco Malfoy, King of the Rats. It had a good ring to it. He filed that idea away to put on his vision board later.

It was very lucky that first-year Slytherins were trained to slink during orientation. Sure, learning Transfiguration was all well and good, but slinking? Now that was a marketable skill. Draco wondered if he could fit it on his resume: _Successfully slunk away from a lovesick Chosen One to avoid seduction and certain doom._

It didn’t take long to slink to the dungeons, since Draco’d been doing it most days of his life since he was eleven. While he did it he thought of ways to get out of this.

It had been a very simple plan. Brew some Amortentia, make Potter fall in love with McGonagall, a day of hilarity for Draco and sheer torment for the both of the victims. He’d gotten the idea from a Muggle play he’d read by some man named Wilhelm Shivermetimbers or something.

...okay, maybe he had let Baddock convince him to watch _Pirates of the Caribbean_ too many times.

The only problem, as Draco, who was an excellent Potions student, had known, was that Amortentia was supposed to make someone fall in love with the brewer. It had only taken a few days of research on Polyjuice Potion for Draco to realize that adding some lacewing flies after the crucial steam stage should make it redirect to the person whose hair they put in, and he’d dispatched Crabbe to retrieve one of McGonagall’s hairs. Except when they were about to brew the potion on the bathroom floor, Goyle managed to drop the silvery-white hair he’d collected and picked up, instead—somehow—a naturally platinum blond one.

He leaned in close to the stone wall, whispered, “Weasley is Our King,” and slunk in, at which point he made a wild break for it—ignoring Theo Nott’s call of, “Malfoy, you sod, did a curse rebound on your cock _again_?”—raced down the hall and into his private room, and shut the door. A few complex locking and warding charms, and he was safe. Out of the entire student body, only Granger might be able to break them, and she was, remarkably and for a change, on his side today.

Well. Sort of.

He collapsed onto his bed and tried very hard not to regret his entire life because that would mean regretting that one beautiful night with Cho Chang and Terry Boot in fifth year when all the other Ravenclaws were out...in the library or stargazing or whatever the hell Ravenclaws did. There was really no need for them to exist in the first place, since Slytherins were generally much smarter and more effective with the knowledge they did have. But that one night had justified the existence of the entire house. Draco considered that he might have a kink for the color blue.

That was when a whisper of, “Hello, my dearest,” came from his right and Draco shrieked, leaped from the bed, and remembered in a surge of utmost horror the rumors that Potter had an Invisibility Cloak.

Potter pulled off the cloak to reveal his naked torso. Draco covered his eyes, but was relieved to find upon peeking through them (he was a Slytherin, honor meant nothing to him, he was just trying to spare himself some trauma) that Potter was wearing Muggle trousers. His face was flushed, and his dark hair stuck up in all directions.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Potter said, pouting at Draco (the pout was...not terrible. Draco could’ve given him a few pointers. He was not using the green eyes to his advantage) and hopping off the bed himself. He moved forward slowly, in an awkward gait that Draco realized in a moment of terrible clarity was his attempt at a seductive sashay.

“Potter, you have to stop,” he said, backing up against the wall, whipping out his wand, and abruptly staring at it and realizing that he didn’t know any spells that could stop the Amortentia. If he Stunned Potter now, the effects would just resume when he awoke.

Ah. Maybe this was why Ravenclaw House existed. To know stupid things like this.

“But Malfoy, how could I? You know we were meant for each other…” Potter said, and before Draco even had time to process that even in the throes of Amortentia, Potter still called him by his last name, Potter had lunged forward and taken his face in his hands and was kissing him.

It wasn’t...bad, actually. Potter’s hands, one of which had Draco by the jaw and the other by the waist, were rough and demanding, but he wasn’t a bad kisser.

Potter had already moved from his mouth to his jaw, and then to his neck, kissing beside his ear, and the squeak of alarm and...arousal? that Draco somehow heard come out of his own mouth woke him up. He slipped under Potter’s grip and with Potter still grasping at his waist, bolted for the door and aimed his wand at it, attempting to dismantle the wards as Potter began mouthing at the back of his neck and Draco shivered. He almost let himself relax into it, not because he wanted Potter kissing his neck but because, well...it felt good to be touched, to have the comfort of human contact. It had been a while since he’d been touched any way but violently.

Still, he shoved Potter off—because it was Potter for crying out loud and anyway Draco could seduce anyone he liked without a love potion, it was an affront to his dignity to snog anyone under the influence—and redoubled his efforts at the wards. He managed to disable the first layer of security before Potter knocked his wand out of his hand, tackling him to the ground. They rolled around on the floor for a bit as Potter attempted to pull Draco’s robes off and Draco thought he might die of horror before commanding footsteps made their way to the door.

“Harry?” came Granger’s voice, and Draco had never been more relieved to hear it. He immediately took back all the times he’d inwardly thought of it as shrill. And called it shrill out loud. And yelled that it was shrill across any room the two of them happened to be occupying.

He could hear Granger whispering from the other side of the door, and a soft tremor in the air. She was dismantling the wards. Draco threw Potter off him again and grabbed for his wand, but Potter growled and grabbed both Draco’s wrists in one of his large hands. They’d used to be the same size but now Potter had a weight and build advantage, although Draco was the tiniest bit taller.

Damn the man’s heroic exploits and obsession with Quidditch, and Draco’s recent weight loss. Damn it, damn it. Draco writhed like a snake, trying to shake himself loose from Potter’s grip. He wondered what his eleven year old self would have said upon seeing this. Probably would’ve died on the spot.

Then, finally, Granger cried, “Alohomora,” and the door swung open, and she charged into the room with her mane of hair bobbing about her head and her robes swishing. Upon seeing the two of them on the floor, her lip curled.

“O great warrior goddess,” Draco cried, “please free me.”

Malfoys always knew when to grovel, and besides that it was on the Slytherin curriculum. Draco commended Flint for his excellent orientation planning.

Granger shot him a disdainful look and pointed her wand at Potter.

Potter abruptly shot off of Draco and into the air, where he hung by his ankle and looked very confused. He kept trying to reach for Draco, who was still on the floor.

Draco stood and brushed himself off. “Well. Thank you, Granger.”

She moved her wand to him and repeated the spell, and Draco was displeased to find himself upside down. It was decidedly not his best angle. His nose was to its nicest effect with the pointy side down.

“What are you doing that to me for?” he asked, widening his eyes and hoping that his pout would be half as effective if viewed from the wrong direction. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Even if I were completely incapable of analyzing the empirical evidence of who’s usually to blame when things like this happen to us,” Granger said, “I’d still have some basic knowledge of love potions, you complete sodding nimrod.”

Draco gave her his best winning smile, which curved up (or he supposed down at this exact moment) on the left side and had a 93 percent success rate of making women immediately give him whatever he wanted.

Granger hit him across the face.

He’d forgotten about the three percent chance she’d do that, and immediately resolved to get a Ravenclaw minion to keep track of these things.

“Come on, Granger, what reason would I have to make Potter fall in love with me? I hate him. He disgusts me. When he comes within six feet of me I give a delicate shiver of revulsion,” Draco said. When he looked over at Potter he was amused to find tears shimmering in his eyes, and wished he’d got that one tiny Gryffindor to follow them with his camera.

“How could you, Malfoy?” Potter wailed, writhing in midair. Granger cast Silencio on and subsequently ignored him, which Draco both approved of and highly disapproved of because it meant all her attention was focused on himself, and she looked as though she was quite ready to cut off his penis and shove it down his throat.

As weirdly arousing as that was, he decided he’d rather not, but just as he opened his mouth to begin talking his way out of the situation, Granger interrupted him by pulling a tiny beaded bag out of her robes, which he had to assume contained many pockets.

She rifled around in it, held it up to her eye to look inside, and then shoved her whole arm in, finally withdrawing it with a bottle about the size of her palm.

“Do you know what this is?” Granger asked him, one eyebrow cocked.

“Ah,” Draco said. All the blood was going to his head.

“Five points from Slytherin,” Granger said.

“Hey! You can’t do that! Give them back!” Draco said. “Five points to Slytherin!”

“You can’t counteract me that way,” Granger said. “I took points and you can’t take them back.”

“I’m a prefect too,” Draco countered. “I could do this all day. Well, not in this situation because I think I might pass out soon, but—”

“It’s Veritaserum,” said Granger, who was looking even more annoyed with him than usual, if that was possible. Her large dark eyes had narrowed to slits. “Which means that I have the power to make you tell the truth. Now, wouldn’t you rather tell me what really happened to Harry rather than having some of this and not only spilling the truth about that but also having to truthfully answer any other question I ask you?”

Draco gave a delicate little shiver, which until that point had been reserved solely for instances in which Potter got within six feet of him.

“Where did you get that?”

“Never mind where I got it,” said Granger, who for some reason had gone a bit pink. “It’s where I’m going to put it that should concern you.”

He sighed and told her...most of the story. She actually seemed impressed for a second when he told her about the modification to the Amortentia, though she tried to hide it, but her look deepened into a scowl when he told her the part about sneaking the potion into Potter’s pumpkin juice by leaning over his table and provoking him while a first year accomplice dropped it in, and when he told her about how Potter had chased him all over the school and everyone had begun fighting amongst themselves for some reason when they saw Potter corner Draco and try to snog him in the Great Hall, she sighed.

“I got him under control about an hour ago,” she said, “but then he escaped. I went to the library.”

“Why?” Draco said. “I was fearing for my life and you were in the library? Merlin’s sagging balls, woman! Have a little compassion!”

Granger smacked him again but a little more lightly than last time. He began to wonder whether she was a dominatrix and squeezed his thighs tight together to protect the family jewels. The Malfoy line would not die with Draco.

In fact, he might have accidentally already guaranteed it wouldn’t. He put checking in with Daphne Greengrass about that missed period on his mental to-do list.

“I was in the library so I could figure out how to do this, you troglodyte,” Granger said, and making a complicated motion with her wand at Potter, said, “Finite moda immoderata! Oh, and arresto momentum!”

Potter’s body seemed confused as to what had just happened but eventually collapsed softly to the floor, and he poked his head up after a moment, squinting. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

“Finite incantatem,” Granger said. “Really, we need to find a way of getting around the stacked spell issue. That will be my next Charms paper, I think. Come on, Harry.”

“What happened?” Potter asked, glancing around him as though coming out of a trance. “I had the weirdest dream…oh no.” He was staring up at Draco in sheer revulsion.

“If my plan had gone as I intended you’d be much worse off,” Draco told him, although his vision was starting to blur. “You’d probably have gotten detention for months.”

“I’ve already hit him twice,” Granger said. “You don’t need to do it again. At least not now. You should take a shower, wash the ferret off.”

Potter retrieved his wand from his trousers, Summoned his Invisibility Cloak, and glared at Draco as the two of them left. “This isn’t over,” he said.

“I’m sure,” Draco said, indicating his body. “No one can get enough of this.”

Potter snarled, but left the room when Granger gave him a look. She waved her wand in Draco’s general direction. He managed to cushion his head with his forearms upon his unceremonious collapse to the floor.

He attempted to replenish the blood flow to most of his body by force and it worked fairly well. Then he rolled over onto his back and started to think about which Ravenclaw he should recruit. As Potter had said, this wasn’t over, and he needed backup who could supply him with countercurses should the need arise.

Besides, Ravenclaws were usually very good in bed.


	2. The Spirit of Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Another chapter is here. Thanks so much for kudos and bookmarks; as this is my first fic on here I really appreciate it, and I hope you continue to enjoy! I have about four more chapters written already so will continue to post on Thursday nights for at least the next few weeks! Enjoy. Please.

“I did _what_?” Harry asked, almost spitting out his tea.

“Harry, I really don’t want to go through this with you again,” Hermione said. “It was a despicable thing to do but it’s not like you should be surprised, it’s Malfoy. Like I keep saying, you should go to Professor Dumbledore. Drugging anyone into romantic attraction is absolutely unacceptable and against school rules, and as you seemed perfectly inclined to sleep with Malfoy, you have every right to—”

“I did _WHAT_?”

Hermione looked at him over her Transfiguration book with an expression that was equal parts ah-my-dear-sweet-brother and I’m-going-to-strangle-you.

“I understand that you’re upset, Harry, but it doesn’t really seem like you’re upset in the right way. This was a serious breach of your rights, and—”

“But he didn’t mean to make me attracted to him, right?” Harry said. “I mean, there’s no way Malfoy would ever want to—”

He stopped before he could say the full horrible words.

“Of course not, Harry, but that doesn’t change anything,” Hermione said. “Love potions are incredibly dangerous and immoral pieces of magic. Frankly, I think they should be made illegal.”

Logically, he knew Hermione was right and he should probably go to Dumbledore. But did he have to??

“I can hear you thinking something ridiculous and inadvisable,” Hermione said, not looking up from her book.

“Love you too,” Harry said. “I’ll take care of this. I just...I want to talk to Malfoy about it. Dumbledore doesn’t need to know. I can just beat Malfoy up.”

“Perfect,” Hermione said. “What a wonderful solution, Harry. Nice to know that you’re dealing with your feelings well.”

“Where’s Ron, by the way?” Harry asked, glancing around. He hadn’t seen Ron since earlier that day.

“Oh—I don’t know,” Hermione replied, finally tearing her eyes away from the book. “Haven’t seen him. Probably out flying or something. But you two should really both be studying. We’ve less than a month until finals.”

Harry grabbed the Marauder’s Map and ducked out of the portrait hole. Malfoy’s little figure was shown patrolling the halls on the fifth floor next to an abandoned classroom. Perfect, Harry thought.

When he approached Malfoy under the Cloak, he found him looking ill and tired, as usual. It was hardly any fun to fight with him anymore, but now Harry had a reason.

His foot scuffed on the stone floor, and Malfoy turned. “Hominem revelio!” he called, and his eyes narrowed when Harry’s form revealed itself.

Harry took off the cloak.

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy asked.

“We need to talk,” Harry said. “Come on.”

He led Malfoy into the nearest classroom, where Harry perched on the desk in the front of the room. Malfoy stayed standing, one hand on his wand.

"I came down here to fight you,” Harry told him.

Malfoy snorted. “So why are we talking?”

“Because I changed my mind.” Harry sighed. “Why did you do that? With the love potion?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Malfoy protested. “You tried to seduce me and I hit you and escaped your horrid clutches.”

“Forbearance, thy name is Malfoy,” Harry said drily.

“Are you trying to get me to fight you?”

“Might be fun,” Malfoy said. “Anyway, I know you’d only be doing it because you didn’t get enough action the other day.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Listen, what you did was stupid and I could report you to Dumbledore and probably get you expelled.”

“So why don’t you?” Malfoy said. “Are you trying to extort me for sex? Because that’s been done. Multiple times.”

“No,” Harry snapped. “I don’t want to have sex with you!”

Was it just him, or did Malfoy look...hurt?

“That’s a new one,” said Malfoy. “I haven’t heard those words since the time I tried to seduce Professor Snape while asleep.”

“You tried to have sex with Snape while he was asleep? How did you even get into his chambers?” Harry asked.

“No, no, I was asleep,” Malfoy said. He shuddered. “Somnophilia is a major turn-off for me.”

“If you were sleeping, how did you hear him say it?” Harry pointed out.

“Malfoys have very sharp hearing,” Malfoy said with an idiotic tilt of his head that he must have thought looked aristocratic. Well, it didn’t.

“My point is,” Harry began firmly, “that I am in a position of power here.”

“Which makes your attempted sexual conquest of me even less ethical,” said Malfoy, who looked gleeful.

“Which makes my ability to tell you to stop being such an utter git even more potent,” Harry told him, “and if you don’t, I’ll report you to Dumbledore.”

Malfoy pouted. He really was a child.

“I’m watching you,” Harry said.

“I’m sure you are,” said Malfoy, flexing his biceps. “How could you resist?”

“I really do want to hit you,” Harry said ruefully as he left the room.

“Forbearance, thy name is Potter,” said Malfoy, following along behind, and then bumping into Harry when he stopped in horror.

"What—” Malfoy asked from behind him and followed Harry’s gaze.

To Ron and Pansy Parkinson, who were emerging from a broom closet with what looked like an entire tube of lipstick on Ron’s face.

“RON?” Harry asked at the same time as Malfoy squawked, “PANSY?”

The two offenders turned like they were trying to Apparate and failing, and the four of them stared at each other for a minute. Then Malfoy marched over, grabbed Pansy by the arm, and dragged her away from Ron.

“Let’s never speak of this again.”

“Agreed,” Harry and Ron said at the same time, and proceeded back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Er,” Harry said as they were approaching the portrait. “Ron, you’ve got something on your face.”

* * *

“Do you think he’ll listen to you?” Hermione asked, taking a bite of oatmeal.

Harry shrugged. “He’s Malfoy—who knows what he’ll do?”

Everyone kept staring at Harry—even more than usual—with looks of bemused fear and sometimes curiosity on their faces. A few looked envious.

“Besides continue to ruin my life, that is,” Harry said, biting into a piece of toast and imagining it was Malfoy’s neck. He shuddered. That particular fantasy was one he would not be repeating now that he had—oh God—actually bitten Malfoy’s neck. In a completely different way, but still.

But it almost seemed as though Malfoy was listening to him, and that was—something, at least.

When Harry got back to Gryffindor Tower late that night after a long flying session, he found Ron in front of the fire, looking moody. He felt a bit affronted: usually he was the one doing that. In fact, he’d planned to do it tonight, but Ron was usurping his spot.

Harry thumped down on the sofa opposite Ron, who startled and looked over at him with wild eyes.

“Oh, Harry, it’s just you,” he said. “How are you, mate?”

Cocking his head, Harry said, “Oh, the usual.”

There was a minute of silence.

“Er.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Look—I know we said we weren’t going to talk about it, but are you okay? I know it was a bit—rocky when you and Hermione—and now this thing with Parkinson—”

Ron flushed, and in the firelight his whole body looked pink and red and orange like a sunset.

“Well, while you were—you know, under the potion—Pansy and I were fighting because I’d figured out you were potioned—well, Hermione did, but she told me. Anyway, we were arguing about it and then one thing led to another, I guess.”

Harry nodded. “Is it...anything serious?”

“No,” Ron said quickly. “Not at all. Just meaningless and kinky sex.”

“I don’t need to know that,” Harry said, wincing. “And before you ask, I won’t tell Hermione. I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright and she wasn’t going to break your heart or anything.”

Ron snorted. “That’s not the body part I’d be worried about.”

“Ugh,” Harry said.

They were silent for another long minute before Harry remembered the scene in the Great Hall when he’d been un-potioned.

“If you and Pansy were fighting about my being potioned—what was everyone else fighting about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Ron said breezily. “They just got into the spirit of things.”

Harry watched him, suspicions dancing on his tongue, and decided not to press the issue.

“Right,” he said. “Well, I’ve got to go to bed. I have a lesson with Dumbledore tomorrow and I want to get up early to get a fly in before breakfast.”

“Let me know what Dumbledore says,” Ron said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

And despite everything Ron had said, when Harry climbed the stairs to the dormitory and tossed himself into bed, he couldn’t help replaying one moment in his mind: just after Pansy and Ron exited the broom closet, when Ron tucked one strand of her dark hair behind her ear. It was an intimate, friendly gesture, not something Harry would associate with hate sex or a one-night stand.

Harry supposed he had known for a long time that Ron and Hermione would be together at some point, and that everything would change, that they wouldn’t be the balanced triangle they had always been. But he hadn’t been expecting them to break up the way they had the day after winter holiday, with Hermione crying and telling Ron she needed someone who understood her feelings, and Ron bellowing that he didn’t know how to deal with her, she was too complicated.

She was complicated, Hermione, the kind of person who had so many layers and nooks and crannies that it was difficult to know what she’d do. But Harry had always found her so simple to be with, so simple to love.

Of course, he’d never tried to sleep with Hermione. Perhaps she needed someone more subtle than Ron, more clever and perceptive. But as he lay there, he thought of the way Parkinson cheered at Quidditch games and her fierce loyalty to Malfoy, dedicated to being his right hand the same way that Ron was for Harry, and he thought he understood.

Still, she was a Slytherin. And she’d been awful to them. And Hermione couldn’t know.

Harry could work within those parameters, he thought, and bracing himself for the nightmares, he crushed his pillow to his chest and closed his eyes.

* * *

It wasn’t until late the next day that Harry’s suspicions about Malfoy’s sudden docile silence in classes finally boiled over.

“So let me get this straight.” Ron was rubbing his temples. “You’re mad that Malfoy’s not being a git.”

“That’s not…exactly how I’d put it,” muttered Harry, pacing across the common room floor and deepening the groove he’d worn in it in the last two hours. He wondered as he stumbled over its edge whether the castle was mocking him, because this couldn’t be natural.

Ron slapped his own cheek gently. Harry wondered whether Hermione had gotten him into that habit. She slapped people very softly when she was happy with them, and hard when she wasn’t.

“Okay, Harry, let’s just go from the beginning to fully understand your reasoning here,” he said. “Retrace our steps, so to speak.”

Harry went down into the groove again. It was nearly a foot deep. He muttered something about his steps being retraced enough.

“So, we hate Malfoy,” Ron said, launching into a cross-examination Harry bet any barrister would've been proud of.

“Yes.”

“We’ve hated Malfoy for years.”

“Yes.”

“He’s a git.”

“Yes.”

“He called Hermione...well, you know.”

“Yes.”

“His father tried to kill Ginny.”

“Yes.”

“He made fun of you for various reasons, made all of our lives a living hell, etc., etc.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been trying to catch him in the act for five years so he could get his due.”

“Yes.”

“Now you have proof that he did something bad.”

“Yes.”

“And you used that to make him stop being a git.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re...unhappy about it.” Ron sounded like he was reading Harry’s tea leaves and they didn’t make any sense.

“Well...yes.”

“Harry, mate,” Ron said, “I love you but you’re mental.”

“Ron,” Harry said. “If Malfoy is really being a decent person, he’s not well. Something is wrong. And I know just how to fix it.”

“Hermione is the one with the plans,” Ron said desperately. “It’s not your job, Harry, you’ll...overextend yourself.”

But his pleas fell upon deaf ears.


	3. Chapter 3

Since he’d already slept with him, the first potential Ravenclaw minion Draco approached was Terry Boot.

It took a couple of hours after talking to Potter to get him alone, but finally Draco peered over a few stacks of books on a table in the library to see Boot’s bespectacled face there. He pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down.

Boot jumped at the noise. “Draco,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest, and Draco wondered if all Ravenclaws routinely called people by their first names just to prove they knew them. “You scared me.”

“That’s my job. Terrifying Death Eater and all,” Draco said, giving him a rakish grin. He watched Boot swallow and saw that it’d been effective. For such a smart bloke, he was awfully susceptible to the Malfoy charms. Of course, Draco saw those two things as being correlated, not contrasted.

“What do you need?” Boot asked, putting down his quill carefully. While he was distracted with polishing his glasses Draco snuck a peek at his Transfiguration paper.

“What makes you think I need something? Maybe I just came here to look at your beautiful face,” Draco said.

“That’s certainly not true,” Boot said. “If you’d wanted a beautiful face to look at you’d have gone and looked in the mirror.”

“You know me so well,” Draco sighed.

“I’m a Ravenclaw. We make it our job to know things,” Boot said, adjusting his glasses. Draco wondered if that had been purposeful or an excellent coincidence.

“Well, since you seem to be convinced that I need something, I thought I’d think of something that I might need, just to placate you, of course, I know how you Ravenclaws hate being wrong.”

“Of course,” said Boot, who was looking at Draco as though he was a rather cute kitten who kept sticking his claws into the furniture.

“So I thought you might like to become one of my minions,” Draco said, putting his feet up on one of Boot’s stacks of books and watching him cringe. “Good hours—mostly night work—pays in whatever you like, and being connected with me means being connected to the Malfoy name, which means jobs, money, fame, prestige, connections with the Dark Lord if you like—”

Seeing the expression on Boot’s face, Draco added, “Or anyone else! Lots of connections with non-Dark wizards as well. Equal opportunity, we Malfoys are.”

“So what exactly would I be doing?” Boot asked.

“Well, as my designated Ravenclaw minion, you would mostly stick around to provide me with necessary information at opportune times. Mostly on Harry Potter, and ways to make his life miserable,” Draco said.

“Sounds good,” Boot said.

Draco looked at him askance. “What do you have against Potter?”

“I’ve been helping him for years, and he doesn’t even know who I am or care about what I’ve done for him,” Boot said. “I wouldn’t mind teaching him a lesson about the value of Ravenclaws. I’ll stop short at killing him, but roughing him up a bit wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Right...well, whenever you weren’t doing that, you could just do what we do. You know, we could teach you to lurk and slink and grovel, very useful skills, and you could eat lots of sweets, and if you wanted to play our party games in the Slytherin common room I suppose that’d be fine.”

“Just out of idle curiosity, what kinds of games are we talking about?” Boot looked apprehensive.

Draco scoffed. “Only the usual ones—you know, Fuck Kill Torture Then Kill, strip poker—oh, and Candyland.”

“That sounds nice enough,” said Boot. “I like Candyland.”

“Well, we alter it a bit so that everyone wears an anal plug and when you go forward you get real candy, and when you get sent backward you get a few spanks from the player of your choice with our special paddle that says Loser,” Draco said.

“Don’t ask...don’t ask...don’t ask…” Boot was muttering to himself.

“Oh, the paddle is Blaise’s, from when he was fucking the female Weasley,” Draco said breezily. “They used to do a lot of humiliation play. Good times; it was awfully funny to see Loser on his arse. Gryffindors do have their uses, I suppose.”

Boot had his head on his folded arms, smearing his face with ink, and looked like he was trying to set his parchment on fire with his mind.

“So what do you say?” Draco asked, his voice bright. “Are you in?”

“Will you promise never to tell me what Slytherins get up to ever again?” Boot asked. “And make them stop hitting me?”

“Of course,” Draco said. He didn’t mention that he’d been telling Crabbe and Goyle to rough Boot up a bit lately so he’d be more inclined to acquiesce. It was the Slytherinly thing to do. “Anything for you, my lovely eagle-spawn.”

“Fine then,” Boot said, with his head still down.

“Here’s a scroll of things I’d like you to file and keep track of, and I’d like a dossier on Harry Potter’s love life as soon as possible,” Draco told him, tossing the scroll onto the table.

Boot gave him a thumbs up without lifting his face. “By Tuesday, boss.”

Draco whistled as he left the library and fully ignored Madam Pince’s glare. He had a Ravenclaw minion, Daphne Greengrass was not, as it turned out, pregnant, and soon he’d be able to torment Potter while pretending to be a little angel. Today was a great day.

* * *

Draco’s good mood was abruptly ruined the next morning when he received an Owl from his mother sans sweets that read something along the lines of, “I’m going into hiding; I’ve bargained for your safety; good luck dearest!”

Draco sank down in his seat at the Slytherin table. Since the Dark Lord had killed his father the summer before, somehow getting into Azkaban to exact revenge on an unsatisfactory servant, his mother was all he had. Bizarrely, the first thought that came to mind was that he wasn’t going to be getting any more packages of sweets.

“Are you alright, Draco?” asked Susan Bones, who was skipping by the Slytherin table dressed all in yellow, a warm smile on her round face.

“Just contemplating the necessity of Slytherin House in the school ecosystem,” Draco told her. “Why, are you jealous?”

Susan rolled her eyes and shook her head, which made the little bows in her hair sparkle, and moved on. Hufflepuffs: Draco would never understand why they were necessary.

He considered faking illness and going to the hospital wing, but Pomfrey had been eyeing him with skepticism quite often lately and he didn’t know how well that would go. Instead he just went off to Transfiguration, resigning himself to a day of drudgery and a bit of fear.

Draco’s parents had been serving the Dark Lord for decades but had fallen out of favor in recent years for making a life for themselves once he’d been defeated the first time. His father had been...in danger...for quite a while now. Luckily the Dark Lord found Draco himself useless enough, and Draco had shown little enough interest in the Death Eaters (he preferred bullying small children and having unprotected sex in a disorganized fashion, and not at the same time), that the Dark Lord had left Draco alone thus far. If his mother was in hiding, then the Dark Lord would presumably come after Draco next. It was only a matter of time, and the amount of that time depended on how well his parents had bargained for his safety.

He was so engaged in all this thinking that he almost didn’t notice Potter’s cauldron exploding in Potions and boils erupting all over his face. Snape gave Potter a look of outright loathing, which wasn’t new.

Draco had long ago learned, though, that the slower Snape spoke, the angrier he was.

Potter was out of the room before he finished a sentence.

Herbology was his next class, but just as Draco left the castle, a swishing noise from the sky caught his attention, and he looked up to find Potter hovering there on his broom, holding a bucket of something that looked very red. Draco tried to run but it did no good. The red stuff fell directly on his beautiful person and no spell would get it off, and he just knew it would completely ruin his naturally platinum blond hair.

The end conclusion of all of this thinking he was doing, Draco decided while stamping from Potions to the greenhouses and tossing his newly red hair, which he was ABSOLUTELY going to pull off and would REFUSE to let wash out his alabaster complexion, was that he needed to stay at Hogwarts. As much as he hated this school, with its Harry Potter-worship and Dumbledore’s blatant partisanship toward Gryffindors and Hagrid, he...well. It was the place he was safest.

Which meant he couldn’t get expelled.

Which meant he had to keep being…Draco ground his teeth so hard he could hear his jaw getting tense... _nice_. Otherwise Potter’d tell on him.

Of course, Potter had broken any number of school rules for years and years, more than Draco had, but he wasn’t getting expelled, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be immediately killed by the Dark Lord.

...Well, maybe he would, but the two things wouldn’t have a cause and effect relationship.

But Draco was the son of Death Eaters and an evil Slytherin, yada yada yada, and so inevitably would be given no leeway if someone managed to actually produce evidence of his wrongdoing. Which they never had so far. He smirked, remembering the Great Cover-Up of fourth year, but his smirk soon faded. There was no way of covering up anything he could do to escalate the War on Potter. Draco would be given no leeway.

The Great Hall was nearly empty but for Draco, Crabbe and Goyle, and a few others late that evening, and he sat there looking moodily off into the distance, but making sure he was still pretty. He leaned back on the bench, looking aesthetically pleasing as he nibbled at a muffin, when he saw Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley over at the Hufflepuff table snogging. He gagged and looked away.

McGonagall came sweeping in in that ridiculous hat (when had she bought that thing, 1933?), and Draco fully expected her to smack them over the head as she’d done to him and Pansy many times, but instead she just walked on by, giving them a small smile.

He sat bolt upright. So Hufflepuffs did have a use after all. And it was one that could solve all Draco’s problems.

“Crabbe, Goyle, you’re dismissed,” he said. Then he grabbed the enchanted coins he’d made—copying Granger’s strategy for the DA club the previous year, if there was anything Slytherins knew it was approp—he meant— _improving_ other people’s work—and instructed Boot to meet him in the library early the next morning.

Boot showed, as Ravenclaws were wont to do. Draco was observant enough to notice the dark circles under his eyes and his messy hair, the crooked tie.

“I don’t have the dossier quite ready for you yet,” Boot said, clenching his teeth as they took a seat. “I need to do a few more interviews.”

“That’s not why I called you here,” Draco said. “I need you to draft some quick plans for things we can do to Potter. Some ideas—off the top of my newly-ginger head, which was a style choice _I_ made—include growing his tongue, making him crash his broom, and Portkeying him to America. I also need you to help me recruit.”

“Why?” Boot asked, rubbing his temples. “Do you need more Ravenclaws?”

“No,” Draco said, “and if I’d thought about it I’d have quickly taken that thought back upon seeing you today. You look like you’ve been run over by a thestral. I don’t want any more of you.”

“Thanks,” said Boot, cracking his neck.

“But anyway,” said Draco, “the reason we need to recruit is that our group isn’t finished yet. Before we can pull anything we need a cover, someone to make sure we’re beyond suspicion.”

“Ah,” Boot said. “You want a Hufflepuff.”

Something about the look on his face made Draco nervous. “Is there some problem with that?”

“Not exactly,” Boot said, “but...it can be hard to get Hufflepuffs in on mischief. They tend to stick together and follow rules. But that’s exactly why you need one, I get it. I’ll start working on it. And I’ll have those plans ready tomorrow.”

“Good,” Draco said brusquely, and leaned back in his chair. He watched as Boot blinked slowly and his eyelids fluttered. He looked a mess. Draco himself would never allow this kind of slobbery, and he was vaguely amused. “What in Salazar’s name happened to you, anyway, Boot? Did someone slip an overactive Pepper-Up into your tea without your knowledge so that you’d stay up all night and be too tired to do your best in the Charms test the following day?”

“That’s...specific,” Boot said, giving Draco a skeptical look.

Draco shrugged. Someone had to make sure Granger didn’t come top in every subject. He was just looking out for the little people.

“But no,” Boot continued. “Professor Snape gave me an extra assignment and I had to stay up last night and the night before to finish it.”

“Why did he do that? I didn’t hear anything about any extra credit assignment,” Draco said.

Boot shrugged. “I think it was only for me. Snape didn’t tell me why, but...I think he was angry that I was coming top in the class and he wanted to give me something that would take my marks down. He said this special assignment would make up a quarter of my final grade. Luckily I finished it—”

He rifled around in his school bag before yanking out a massive scroll.

“How long is this parchment?” Draco asked.

“Four feet,” Boot said, raising an eyebrow.

Draco clenched his jaw and grabbed the scroll.

Boot almost fell out of his chair trying to take it back. “Malfoy, give that back! I need it! My Potions marks will plummet!”

“I’ll deal with Severus,” he said.

Boot just stared at him. “What?”

Attributing his sudden stupidity to sleep deprivation was the best thing to do. Otherwise Draco’d have to face that he’d picked a dud of a Ravenclaw as his minion.

"He’s my godfather; I’ll deal with him.”

“But...why? Weren’t you just talking about how you’d used illicit methods to take down someone else’s marks?”

“I never confirmed that,” Draco said. “And besides, it’s different. He’s a teacher. Teachers have been discriminating against Slytherins for years. Uncle Sev should know better.”

As Boot was mouthing _Uncle Sev_ to himself and looking as though he’d just swallowed a live bowtruckle, Draco softened.

“Besides,” he said, “you’re my minion now. And if there’s one thing Slytherins know how to do, it’s protect their own. I’ll deal with it. You go to the hospital wing and tell Madam Pomfrey you’re feeling sick and need some rest. I’m sure she’ll buy it, since you look like a freshly-passed bezoar. I’ll take notes for you in class.”

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Boot said, looking relieved and still a bit shocked, and stumbling as he got up from the table. Draco started to stride away, appearing, he imagined, very much like a swishy sunbeam.

Behind him, Boot pleaded weakly for him to color-code the notes.

He waved an imperious hand.


	4. Is This the Real Life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is a day late! I had it written; just forgot with how busy this week was. I hope everyone is staying healthy and safe! Thank you for your bookmarks, kudos, and comments. Continue to enjoy. Please.

Harry’s dreaming.

At least, he thinks he is.

No, he must be, because he’s never done this in real life. Never done anything close to this, never even considered this.

...he’s thinking these things to distract himself from the fact that his body is currently rushing around the castle trying to find Draco Malfoy. It’s blurry as it often is in his dreams. This must be a memory.

As his moment of lucidity passes, Harry plunges into his body, feeling a desperation to find Malfoy, a need, like hunger or thirst. A pull. He’s finally escaped Hermione and is racing through the Great Hall, where everyone seems occupied. He doesn’t care. His chest feels tight and tears are stinging at his eyes. He needs Malfoy. His feet are rushing along the stone floor of the dungeons, under the Invisibility Cloak he slips into Malfoy’s room and waits for Malfoy, and when he finally enters Harry feels relief, and joy, wash over him. He leaps at Malfoy, wanting his skin and teeth and tongue and hands, wanting his beautiful hair and silvery eyes, wanting all the things he’s never allowed himself to want, and—

and then the dream diverges from reality, or at least what Harry’s been informed of. Malfoy’s kissing him back, his hands in Harry’s hair as Harry grasps for his waist, his tongue hot even as his body is cool, the way Harry always imagined it would be, and they’re on the floor, and Harry’s pulling at Malfoy’s robes, and his skin is so soft and—

Harry woke in a cold sweat. He readies himself for nightmares before he falls asleep, not—that. Although depending on who you asked, that could easily be considered a nightmare. But to Harry...it really wasn’t. Which was bizarre.

He hated Malfoy—always had. But in the dream, he hadn’t, and even though that’d been Amortentia-induced, kissing Malfoy, touching him had felt good, right somehow, and his cock appeared to feel the same.

The heavy blankets were making him sweat even more, so he pulled them off and glared balefully at the cheerful hard-on in his pajama pants, which seemed blissfully unaware that it was triggering an existential crisis.

His glasses were on his bedside table, and so was his wand. Harry grabbed for one, then the other, put on his glasses, and whispered, “Tempus.” It was already six-thirty. He had a lesson with Dumbledore in an hour.

Harry groaned, stretched, thought very hard about his meeting with Dumbledore until he felt a bit less...warm, and got out of bed.

As he got dressed he considered the dream.

 _The_ dream. _Again_. He’d had it every night since the Amortentia incident over a week ago, and every time he woke hot and frustrated. And he didn’t know what it meant.

On balance, it was certainly better than his usual mysterious dreams, which usually involved bestiality and disembowelment (sometimes concurrently) and ended with him screaming. Ron’d been asking questions about why Harry was sleeping so quietly of late. Harry was seriously considering discussing it with Hermione, who might have some idea what was going on. He’d ask Dumbledore, but...yeah. No.

He shuddered, imagining trying to tell Dumbledore about a sex dream, and immediately got a pounding headache.

Harry adjusted his glasses, rubbed his temples, and went to the meeting.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore said upon Harry’s entry to his office. His blackened hand was cradled close to his body but he outstretched the other to Harry, smiling. “Have you been sleeping well?”

Harry gave him a startled look and cleared his throat. “As well as I ever do, Professor.”

“Excellent, excellent.” The windows on either side of Dumbledore’s desk somehow cast identical flanks of light into the room, painting him in twice the brightness in the place where their axis of symmetry intersected. His little half-moon glasses shone. “Harry, I must tell you—another of the Horcruxes has been found.”

“Really?” Harry took a seat eagerly in front of Dumbledore’s desk.

“By the young Nott boy,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “We offered him protection at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future. I must tell you I was shocked that he reported it to the Order, but he seemed to have been...persuaded to do so. I assume by your face that you know nothing about it.”

Harry shook his head, mystified. Slim, quiet Theo Nott, whose father was rumored to be a Death Eater who’d make Lucius Malfoy look like a kindergarten teacher, wasn’t someone he knew much about, let alone someone he’d think to approach about a Horcrux.

“Which is it?” Harry asked. “The Horcrux?”

“The locket,” Dumbledore said. “Young Theo said he was in Knockturn Alley upon an emergency visit home last weekend and saw one Mundungus Fletcher selling a locket that looked exactly like Slytherin’s locket he’d seen in a book. After further examination, he came to believe that it was a dangerous Dark artifact and brought it to me. I saw that it was the Horcrux at once.”

“So...what do we do now?” Harry asked. “We have to destroy it, don’t we?”

Dumbledore nodded. “And I want you to do it, Harry. I think it will be best.”

“Yes, of course,” Harry said. “What—now?”

“No, not now, my boy,” said Dumbledore, twinkling at him. “We will need a safe environment with plenty of protective spells and a few trusted members of the Order, just to ensure that nothing can go wrong. We should be able to do it by the end of this week. I will arrange a time. But not a word to anyone about this, at least until then.”

“Is that all, sir?” Harry asked, bracing himself to stand.

“Just one more thing, Harry,” Dumbledore said. He removed his little glasses and the shadows of his face threw themselves out of proportion with the sunlight. “Mr. Nott brought this Horcrux to our attention against all odds, and at great risk to himself—something that Slytherins do not usually do. I am afraid I have been too quick to write them off in the past. I want you, Harry, to try and promote some inter-house unity and find out more about the Horcruxes. The more Slytherins we can get on our side, the closer access we have to the Dark Lord, and the safer our students will be.”

Easier said than done. Harry nodded, and wondered all the way to the Great Hall how he was going to reconcile his outright War on Malfoy with Dumbledore’s request.

* * *

It was later that evening when he finally had the chance to approach Hermione. She was bent over a book in an isolated corner of the common room, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, with at least four quills entwined in her fluffy curls.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry said in as low a voice as he thought was audible, sitting down opposite her.

“Oh, Harry!” she said, looking up and smiling at him in that focused way Hermione had, as though he was also a subject of her study and she desperately wanted to figure him out. The light from the fire was dim and her face was thrown into contrast. “What is it?”

“I’ve been having these...dreams,” Harry said, and at Hermione’s questioning look, added, “Not like usual, these are different. They’re...well, I think they’re about what happened when I was under the Amortentia last week.”

“Are they actually about the events that occurred?” Hermione said.

“For the most part,” Harry said, grimacing.

Hermione chewed the end of her quill, her brows furrowed. She pulled another piece of parchment from the little beaded bag she kept in her robes and started to write on it.

“What do you think they mean?” Harry asked impatiently.

“In general dreams mean that your subconscious is trying to process what’s been happening to it. In instances where you’ve been influenced by magic, perhaps it’s merely another attempt to process,” Hermione said. “But I’ve never heard about anything like this happening to Amortentia victims.”

She paused. “What are you feeling in the dreams?”

“Well, usually it’s mostly just a replay of what I did, at least as far as I know. I feel—” Harry paused, his face hot— “I feel a need, like I’m chasing after something I need to live.”

Hermione scribbled down something else and frowned. Harry knew that frown. It meant she’d just figured something out and she didn’t like it.

“Harry...I don’t mean to pry, but...have you ever had romantic feelings for Malfoy prior to the Amortentia?”

Harry recoiled. “Hermione, what—?”

“I have a reason to ask,” she assured him, glancing down at her parchment. “I’m not sure if you know how Amortentia works…?”

At Harry’s blank look, she continued. “Well, you know that Amortentia smells like whatever most attracts the person. Because it’s a magical substance, that attraction usually aligns with magical compatibility.”

“Like...a magical matching service?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows. This sounded like a load of codswallop to him.

“Sort of,” Hermione said. “Close enough for now. But how Amortentia functions is that it makes the brewer closer, in the mind of the victim, to their ideal of attraction. It makes their magics and themselves more compatible. And...well, it has a stronger effect the more compatible the two people are. Usually, if two people are very attractible, Amortentia doesn’t ever come into play, because they’ll just find their way together on their own, with their magic as a guide, so there aren’t a lot of examples of what happens when a pair of highly compatible witches or wizards use it. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do, Hermione, but...me and Malfoy? Are you serious?”

Harry stared at Hermione, who looked...almost a little bashful. “You can’t choose who you’re compatible with, Harry. Your magical core does. I could be wrong.”

But as she ducked back to her other parchment, scribbling away at it, Harry stared at the top of her head. He did what she would’ve done: he evaluated the empirical evidence, and concluded that the likelihood that Hermione was wrong was slim to none.

* * *

Whatever was going on in Harry’s personal life, which was definitely feeling more and more like a dumpster fire with every passing hour, he had his priorities straight. Dumbledore had given him a mission, and he was going to fulfill it. That was why he walked over to the Ravenclaw table at dinner that night and sat down next to Luna.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, looking pleased. “Your wrackspurts look mollified today.”

“Good on them,” Harry said, grinning at her and looking around at the rest of the table a bit apprehensively.

“Cho, Michael, good to see you,” he said. “Terry. Anthony.”

He caught a furtive, suspicious glance from Boot before he ducked back to his plate.

Harry turned to Corner. “So, Michael—how’s the Chaser game this year?”

It was actually a pleasant dinner. The Ravenclaw table was fairly quiet, and Harry appreciated the quick conversation, at least until Anthony Goldstein and Cho got into a screaming match over the best way to brew an antidote to an overly-potent Dreamless Sleep.

After most of the others had left the table, Luna looked over at Harry with her protruding blue eyes. As unsettling as her Spectrespecs were, Harry found her eyes even more so, like an X-ray.

“Why did you come sit with us tonight?” she asked, biting into her third treacle tart of the evening.

Harry opened his mouth and found himself unable to speak.

“I’m happy you came,” Luna said placidly, “but there was some reason, wasn’t there?”

After once again attempting to speak and failing, Harry realized that his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He pointed at it, flailing his arms.

“Ah, the food is better here?” Luna asked. “I’m not sure how that’s possible, Harry. I think the house-elves put the same thing at every table.”

Over her shoulder, Harry could see Malfoy smirking into his sleeve. He got up and stormed out of the Great Hall, glancing around before giving Malfoy the finger on his way out. He’d explain to Luna later. For now, he needed to find someone who’d be able to unstick him.

McGonagall was highly unimpressed when he scribbled, “TONGUE STUCK TO ROOF OF MOUTH. BLAME MALFOY. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE EXECUTION.” on a piece of parchment in her office, but nonetheless removed the offending stickage.

“Do you have any proof that this was Mr. Malfoy’s doing, Potter?” she asked, returning to her desk and casting a quiet, disgusted “Tergeo” at the pool of Harry’s saliva beside the parchment.

“Well—”

“If you say anything to the effect of ‘I just know’ I will personally give you detention,” McGonagall said, straightening her hat.

Harry glowered. “Then...no, Professor.”

“Let me know when you have any witnesses or evidence to back up your claims,” McGonagall said. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Potter?”

Harry...hesitated. It would have been so easy to rat Malfoy out for the Amortentia, to get him expelled. But in that moment Dumbledore’s words about Slytherins came back to him, and he gritted his teeth. Malfoy was as close to Voldemort as any Hogwarts student was. Couldn’t he play a crucial part on their side, if Harry could just make peace with him?

“No,” he said, and set off, out of McGonagall’s office and down the hall. Summerby, the Hufflepuff Seeker, passed him, and they exchanged waves.

A few seconds later, Harry tripped over an invisible wire and rolled down a flight of stairs. He landed at the bottom with a bump, shaken but unhurt, and sat up to find that his entire person was covered in paint. He looked up at the stairs, and found them dripping in a rainbow of color, most of which had somehow transferred to Harry.

“Are you alright, Potter?” Summerby’d appeared at the top of the stairs. Harry waved her off. Malfoy? On their side? Making peace? Ha. Those had been the words of a child.

Harry was a man now, and men made war.


	5. The Truly Wise Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Well. I need to just say I'm going to update Fridays, I suppose. So excited about this chapter! Thanks for all your love on this story, as well as my others (please check them out if you're new to this fic!), and enjoy. Please.

Draco was _cackling._

Elspurn Summerby had been the _perfect_ choice. Boot had done his job well, and also looked considerably better-rested and happier after Draco had helped him get some sleep.

The sweets that Goyle was currently feeding to him, one at a time, at Draco’s insistence, couldn’t be hurting either.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this, Draco, but is it really necessary?” Boot asked, accepting a chocolate from Goyle.

“Slytherins reward generously, and punish vigorously,” Draco said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Fail me, Boot, and you just might find _Loser_ emblazoned on your arse. But serve me well...and you’ll be treated like a king.”

He put his feet up on Crabbe’s obliging back—the Room of Requirement could’ve provided a footstool, but this was just much more to the effect he wanted—and leaned back in his favorite tufted emerald armchair.

“Mission review,” he said. “Boot?”

“I charmed Potter’s tea at dinner and Disillusioned myself to follow him to McGonagall’s office,” Boot said. “I then cast the charm on the stairs and alerted Summerby.”

“Summerby?”

Summerby, lounging on the silver divan opposite, grinned under her dark fringe, a soft grin that could serve in itself as a testament to her goodness. “I set the tripwire and met Potter as he was coming out of McGonagall’s office. We greeted each other and he waved at me. After he fell I went to ask him if he was alright. I can provide an eyewitness account of what occurred. To all appearances, Malfoy wasn’t involved.”

“Goyle?”

“Hm?” Goyle asked as he carefully fed Boot another chocolate. “I didn’t do anything.”

Draco sighed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. And you’re sure the charm will last a week, Boot?”

“Positive,” Boot said. “Wild horses and Professor Flitwick couldn’t get that paint off.”

Ruffling his once-again-although-not-so-naturally-this-time-but-keep-it-hush-hush-platinum-blond hair, Draco stretched.

“Crabbe. Shoulder massage.”

He surveyed his minions with glee. Boot stared at a wall until a bookshelf manifested, then went and grabbed a book from it, angling his head up every time Goyle held a sweet up to him. It’d do him good; the boy was too skinny. Summerby had her eyes closed and looked as though she was getting a nap in.

Draco had...a complicated relationship with people. He’d been raised without friends; even childhood companions like Crabbe and Goyle had been minions from the start, and Pansy a future wife, so no matter how much he loved her platonically, their relationship would be forever tainted by the expectations of their parents and their rebellions against them. Theo and Blaise were closer to friends, and on a good day Draco might call them such, but recently Theo had been disappearing for hours on end, and Blaise seemed to grow more and more sullen by the day—there was tremendous pressure on him to serve the Dark Lord, to whom his late father had been dedicated.

But as Draco watched his minions, a warm feeling permeated his body. A feeling of purpose, of camaraderie. Perhaps...he could have friends, even friends who were—he shuddered a bit—Hufflepuffs. Perhaps he could respect someone and have their respect in return.

“Good, Crabbe,” he said, craning his neck. “Just there. A bit harder.”

Of course, minions would always have their uses.

* * *

When Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle got back to the common room, it was near dark. Theo, Pansy, and Blaise were in the common room playing Fuck Kill Torture Then Kill as the three of them took off their shoes and cloaks and put on the pajamas they’d kept in their bags—on Friday evenings everyone had to wear lingerie or nightwear in the common room.

“Okay—Dumbledore, Slughorn, Sprout,” Pansy said, taking a swig of butterbeer. She was lying on her stomach on the ground, her upper body held up by her elbows, and wearing a blue satin nightgown. Draco decided he did not, in fact, have a kink for the color blue. Pansy, despite their opposite looks, she short, curvy, and dark-haired, he tall, slim, and silvery-blond, was like his sister. The idea of having sex with her, even for someone as admittedly sinful and perverted as he, was disgusting.

“Easy,” Blaise scoffed, at the same time Theo choked on a Bertie Botts bean.

“Alright then, what’s your answer?” Pansy narrowed her eyes at Blaise.

Draco pulled on his matching set of champagne satin and lace pajamas and tossed his hair.

“Fuck Slughorn, kill Sprout, torture then kill Dumbledore,” Blaise said, and as the other two erupted into protestations, he said, “No, wait, I have reasons. Dumbledore’s obvious, the old man’s got to go—what?”

Theo’d gone white and opened his mouth. No sound came out. After a second, he gathered himself.

“Well—I mean, Blaise—Dumbledore’s all that’s protecting us from the Dark Lord, and—”

“Protecting us from the Dark Lord?” Blaise said, snorting. “Theo—”

“Voldemort won’t do anything good for any of us,” Theo said. Draco had barely ever heard him say this much at a time when in a group. “He says he’ll take care of pureblood legacies but he won’t. The man’s a menace, and I know he’s scaring you into thinking otherwise, Blaise, but we’d all be better off without him, even us purebloods.”

“Who’s been putting this bullshit in your head?” Blaise asked furiously, his face red.

Theo’s mouth was very small. “No one,” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, I can think for myself, thanks.”

“Draco!” Pansy, desperately trying to change the subject, exclaimed in relief upon seeing him.

“Hello, everyone,” Draco said, pretending he hadn’t just begun to sneak out the door and attempting to defuse the situation by swaggering in and ruffling Theo’s hair. “Clearly the correct answer is to fuck Dumbledore, Blaise. He’s the most powerful wizard in history, you’d be sure to get something good out of it.”

He could feel tension leaking out of Theo’s body, and let out a long breath.

Blaise was still eyeing Theo suspiciously. Draco coughed. Crabbe and Goyle bustled noisily up the stairs to their rooms.

“I have one. The Golden Trio.” Draco snickered, but let it peter out when Theo’s shoulders suddenly got tense again.

“Now _that’s_ an easy question,” Pansy said, making a face. “Fuck Potter and the other two can just go wherever the hell they want, I don’t even care.”

“What?” Draco asked, looking at her askance. They’d agreed not to talk about what’d happened with Weasley, and from Pansy’s flushed face and darting gaze he could tell she was trying to deflect.

“You can’t have just not noticed that Potter got hot last year,” Pansy told him, glaring daggers from her round brown eyes. “After all, didn’t the man practically beg to sleep with you a week ago?”

Draco made a face. “I was mostly concerned with not getting slept with at the time.”

He had barely noticed Potter’s soft dark hair and smooth deep-gold skin, his broad chest, the large hands that could hold both Draco’s wrists in one fist. Barely. Hardly at all.

Ugh.

“Well, I’d choose Granger,” Draco said, sitting between Theo and Blaise and crossing his legs. “I do owe her a life debt. Kill Weasley, torture then kill Potter.”

“Kinky,” Pansy said.

“I’d fuck Weasley,” Theo said, and upon their incredulous stares shrugged. “You two took the other ones and I don’t want to encroach on your territory.”

“Aww, is wittle Nottiekins scared of us?” Pansy asked, pinching his cheek.

“Yes,” Theo said, laughing. “Very much so.”

“I’m going to bed,” Blaise said, and standing with catlike grace made his way around the corner and up the stairs.

They waited in silence until they heard his door slam. Then the three of them leaned toward each other, any vestige of their former lightheartedness vanishing. 

Theo muttered, “Muffliato,” and Draco filed that spell away to ask him about later; he’d never heard of it before.

“What’s going on with him?” Draco asked, furrowing his brow.

“I don’t know,” Theo said. “He’s been acting off for weeks. Has he told you anything, Pansy?”

She shook her head. “I’d bet he’s gotten a summons from the Dark Lord. Madam Isolde has been trying to keep him safe but perhaps something happened to her?”

Draco frowned. Madam Isolde Zabini might have been a serial killer, but he liked her. If anything had happened to her...well. It would be more than enough to get Blaise to join the side of the Dark Lord. 

“Draco,” Theo said, and against his better judgment, Draco turned to him. Theo’s dark blue eyes were fixed on him, and his slim frame looked delicate in the low greenish light of the common room.

“What?” Draco asked, leaning back on his hands.

“Pansy and I have been talking, and we think we need to go to Dumbledore.”

“ _What?_ ” Draco straightened. “What do you mean, ‘go to Dumbledore?’”

“We have to tell him what’s been going on,” Theo said, his voice steady. “We can ask for asylum, protection for ourselves and our families. Hogwarts isn’t perfect, and Dumbledore certainly isn’t, but I’d rather be a Slytherin in a school against Slytherins than be a Death Eater, or be eaten.”

Draco glanced to Pansy, who was looking uncharacteristically somber, her dark, perfectly sculpted brows drawn together. She raised a hand to her mouth and he realized she was biting her nails. That was when he knew they were serious.

“I thought your mother trained that out of you long ago,” Draco said.

“I don’t exactly listen to my mother much anymore,” Pansy snapped, and then grimaced at her hands. “But in this case...she was right, it’s a nasty habit.”

Draco took her hand in his and squeezed it gently, and she smiled at him, a soft smile he rarely saw. Usually Pansy was all gleaming teeth, sharp words, perfectly kept, a ferocious lightning bolt of a woman. But sometimes she was the warm smooth light of the sun illuminating a cloud. 

None of them had ever been allowed to be fragile, to be imperfect.

“You’ve been so busy messing with Potter I don’t think you’ve been paying much attention to what’s going on in your own House, Draco,” Theo said. “Everyone is terrified. The Dark Lord is threatening them, their families. They’re—well, _we’re—_ all looking to you.”

It had been a long time since Draco had really cried, had felt fragile, since before his mother had come home ash-faced to tell him his father was dead, before Moody had broken his ribs Transfiguring him, before he’d been hit by that bloody hippogriff, before all of it. He had a sudden memory of his mother’s embrace when he’d broken his wrist falling off his broom as a child, of the house-elves bustling around him. A feeling of safety, not despite his vulnerability, but because of it.

Tears were coming to his eyes now. He let one fall, then another. Theo and Pansy came closer to him and he held them.

His own words rang in his ears. _If there’s one thing Slytherins know how to do, it’s protect their own._ His voice, when it finally fought its way free of his lips, his throat, his chest, his ghosts, was soft and gravelly.

“Let’s do it.”

Both of the others sighed.

“But I’ll have some conditions.”

Theo grinned at him. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

* * *

“This is quite the list, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, looking over his half-moon glasses at the three Slytherins before him. Draco had Conjured three chairs for them and taken the imposing green armchair in the center, dropping into it with an elegant ease that belied his hammering heart. This meeting was a play, and each of them had their role.

Brushing his fringe from his eyes, Draco leveled his cool silvery gaze at Dumbledore and did his best Troubled But Devastatingly Handsome Young Nobleman. “Is wanting to protect our Housemates and loved ones a problem for you, sir? I have to say, I’ve always thought you didn’t give a damn about Slytherins, but I never thought you’d announce it like this.”

Pansy, the Blossoming Heiress to Subtlety in the high-backed chair to his left, laid one of her newly manicured hands on his, her silky ponytail slipping on one shoulder as she glanced at him. 

“Now, Draco,” she said. “I’m sure the Headmaster does care very much about us. Perhaps he’s merely too busy with other things to perform his duties to the school to the full. Now that your father is gone, don’t you take his place on the board of governors?”

“I, for one, find this list quite reasonable, Headmaster,” said Theo, who, leaning slightly forward in his simple wooden chair, looked every bit the Solemn Trustworthy Good Slytherin, his slim figure and large eyes accentuated by his black robes.

“As do I, Mr. Nott,” Dumbledore allowed. “I merely question what your proposition is to me that you would list these as your demands.”

“You should’ve been a Slytherin, sir,” Draco said, sneering with about half his usual force. 

“Perhaps I should.” The foot-long scroll of demands printed in Pansy’s perfect society-darling handwriting slid beneath Dumbledore’s hand as he glanced down at it once more. “My inquiry stands.”

Draco nodded at Theo, who leaned farther forward and brought his hands out of the wide sleeves of his robes.

“Headmaster, you know well that part of the reason we request asylum from the Order is that our families and loved ones are deeply and in some cases inextricably in service to the Dark Lord, some willingly and others under Imperius or coercion,” Theo began. “Many of us have ourselves been under some kind of pressure to serve the Dark Lord. It is precisely these connections that could make us so valuable to you.”

“And everyone knows that Slytherins make the best spies anyway,” Pansy added, reverting from subtlety to her usual blunt intensity. 

Dumbledore nodded.

“I will convey your proposal and conditions to the Order,” he said, “and I am sure that we can come to an agreement. _However_ —”

Draco groaned inwardly. _However_ from those wrinkly lips was never a good sign as far as he was concerned.

“I know that neither you, Ms. Parkinson, nor you, Mr. Malfoy, are yet seventeen. While Mr. Nott is of age and can do whatever he likes for the war effort, the two of you will need to be kept safe and hidden from the end of the school year until your seventeenth birthdays.”

Pansy looked furious. Draco was one thing—his birthday was only a few days after the end of classes. Pansy, meanwhile, would have to be sequestered for _months_ , nearly the entire summer.

“That’s absurd!” Pansy exclaimed. “I can help too. I’m nearly seventeen, God knows I’m more competent than either of these numbskulls—Professor, isn’t there anything I can do?”

But Dumbledore shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parkinson. However, we can allow you to be housed at Order headquarters, where your...abundant competence can aid in strategy and intelligence work remotely. Does that satisfy?”

“I suppose,” Pansy said, still looking like she wanted to pick a fight. “But I want real work to do, not just busywork.”

Draco grinned, just a little. Pansy was all too used to being underestimated. He had no doubt she’d beg, borrow, and steal her way into high-level intelligence meetings.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “I’ll have a counterproposal from the Order to you soon. Until then, stay well, and please don’t hesitate to come to me with anything you might need.”

He waved a hand and the door behind them opened. As they stood to leave, Dumbledore’s face shifted somehow. Draco thought he’d never looked older.

“I—” Dumbledore began, lifting a hand to Draco, and broke off. “I have always thought, and said many a time, that it is the confident man who can admit he is anxious, the brave man who can admit he is afraid.”

Pansy’s curling writing whispered peace from the scroll under his hands, and Dumbledore glanced down at it once again, then back up to them.

“In this case, I believe I should append to my original sentiment the truth that I myself, in my many years of life, have too often forgotten,” he said. “It is the truly wise man who can admit that he was wrong.”

“Was that Dumbledore for an apology?” Pansy asked Draco as they made their way down the corridor back down to the dungeons.

“Yes,” Draco said, stretching up until his hands nearly brushed the ceiling. “Yes, Pans, I think it was.”


	6. Incenduscule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, actually posting on time?? Incredible.  
> Thanks so much for the continued love on this and my other fics! I deeply appreciate it. I have a few chapters stocked up so even though finals season is approaching me like a horrific massive beast passing beneath a tiny rowboat on the ocean, I will be able to post from my seat and keep rowing. Enjoy this chapter. Please.

It was somehow mid-May already, and Quidditch finals were, for once, not Harry’s number one concern.

Of course, if he were a betting man, he’d have put Malfoy and Quidditch somewhere around neck and neck on his list of concerns in general, so it wasn’t that surprising.

Besides, they were going to beat the hell out of Hufflepuff and no one thought any different.

Hermione had gone to the library earlier, determined to ace every one of their final exams the next week, and Harry, having despaired of finding Malfoy today and put off studying as long as possible, decided around noon to stop playing his fortieth game of Exploding Snap with Dean and head there to find her.

Except that when he got there, he found a silver-blond head just visible over a table in the corner. Of course when he stopped looking, that was when Malfoy decided to show up. It took only a few moments to cross the room, sliding between pulled-out chairs and stepping over curled-up Ravenclaws on the floor, and stand as menacingly as possible over Malfoy.

“We need to talk.” Harry gritted his teeth.

Malfoy didn’t look up, just kept writing in that sideways way he had, cramped and delicate like a crab’s trail.

“Malfoy!”

Madam Pince glared at Harry, but Malfoy still didn’t look up. Harry couldn’t even see the top half of his face, which was obscured by the draping ridiculous fringe that Malfoy probably thought looked elegant and debonair. Well, it _didn’t._

Harry muttered, “Incenduscule,” and flicked a little ball of fire from his wand onto the corner of Malfoy’s parchment.

Malfoy leaped from his seat and doused the flame with water, looking horrified.

“What do you want, Potter?” he hissed, looking for all the world like a pale, nervous cat.

“I know it was you who did this,” Harry said, indicating his body, which was still covered in paint.

Malfoy rubbed the space between his eyebrows. “You have no proof of that. And, besides—I—”

“What?” Harry asked, giving him a dubious look.

“A lot’s happened,” Malfoy said, moving toward Harry and speaking softly. “We can’t talk here. Come on.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Harry said, but when Malfoy started to walk away he followed. Maybe he was just a glutton for punishment.

He trailed after Malfoy down the quiet, empty corridor from the main library chamber to a private study room. Malfoy tried the knob and found it locked.

“Alohomora,” Harry said, and frowned when there appeared to be more locking charms in place. He disabled them and opened the door—

Malfoy covered his eyes. “MAKE IT STOP!”

Hermione shrieked, knocked over her inkwell, and scrambled off the head of a figure that Harry was alarmed to find was Theo Nott.

“HERMIONE?” Harry said.

“Hello, Harry,” Hermione said, covering her face with her hands. “I—well—I get my best ideas when there’s some blood flow going, and Teddy was just—”

“You call him Teddy?” Harry asked incredulously.

“IS THAT REALLY YOUR BIGGEST CONCERN RIGHT NOW?” Malfoy bellowed. “Is there some school rule in place that mandates Slytherins and Gryffindors to go around fucking each other willy-nilly? Ha...willy-nilly.”

Nott rifled around in his pocket and handed Hermione a scrap of fabric which Harry realized with utmost horror was her underwear.

“Turn around, Malfoy,” Harry said, turning himself and pressing his forehead against the wall.

“Why?”

“Do you want to see my vulva, you absolute fucking–”

Malfoy turned around. He and Harry both did not look at each other while some sounds came from behind them that sounded like Hermione hopping around on one foot.

“You can look now,” she said finally, and when they turned she had her arms crossed and was blowing a loose curl from her face. Nott beside her was looking resolutely at the floor, his face bright red.

“What the hell did you come barging in for?” Hermione demanded.

“We didn’t know you were in here!” Harry said.

Hermione glanced from him to Malfoy, and her eyes widened. “ _Oh._ You moved fast, Harry, didn’t you? Well, you’re going to have to go find a broom closet or something, because--”

“NO!” Harry and Malfoy shouted simultaneously. 

Hermione winced and waved her wand. “Muffliato.”

“So it was you who taught him that spell,” Malfoy mused, then straightened. “Oh, and also, Potter and I are absolutely _not_ having sex.”

“Then why’d you come in here?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Malfoy here was being awfully cryptic.”

“Were you going to tell him about our talk with Dumbledore, Draco?” Nott asked, sitting on the table in the center of the room and swinging his legs. Harry’d never heard him speak before, but his voice wasn’t much of a surprise: low and soft, as though it was meant to act as a calm undercurrent in a conversation.

“What talk with Dumbledore?” Hermione asked with great interest. “Theo, you didn’t tell me about this.”

“Nothing’s for sure yet, and I wanted to wait until we had all the information.” Nott reached out to her, and she cast a glance at Harry and went a bit pink before she joined him, leaning into his shoulder and neatening the edges of the quill she’d salvaged from the floor.

“Well,” she said. “That makes sense.”

“Clearly Draco couldn’t bring himself to do the same.”

“I was only going to tell him so he wouldn’t beat me up,” Malfoy protested.

Harry considered arguing with him, but his hand still read _I must not tell lies_ , however faintly.

Malfoy turned to him. “We went to Dumbledore and told him we’d spy for the Order if he made sure to protect Slytherins and our families.”

“Oh, Theo!” Hermione turned to Nott, her face radiant. “You really got Malfoy to agree?”

Nott smiled at her shyly. Harry tried very hard not to like him, which was difficult because at the moment all his energy was entirely taken up by being hacked the fuck off at Malfoy.

“What are you playing at?” he said, turning to Malfoy and glaring at him.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Malfoy said, sneering at him. “I’ve _reformed_ myself. Isn’t that the kind of sentimental hogwash you just love?”

“Draco—” Nott started, but Harry was out of the room before he caught the rest of it. This was a load of disingenuous bullshit, and he wasn’t going to listen to any more of it.

Harry went to the Room of Requirement to take some time to think where no one else (read: Hermione) could barge in and talk some sense into him, because he didn’t _want_ to be talked sense into, goddammit. As he rounded the corner toward the Room he thought he caught a glimpse of someone leaving the corridor, but he shook it off; it was probably just nerves making him see things. 

Once he got inside, he sat down on a squashy sofa to try and think about things, but he hadn’t slept well the night before, his rest punctured by The Dream, and found himself drifting off.

When he woke it was five-thirty, and he was groggy and clammy and even crosser with Malfoy than he had been earlier. Dumbledore had asked him to come to his office at six o’clock that evening, and Harry, figuring he was close enough and too pissed off to bother waiting, went up the griffin-guarded stairs and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came Dumbledore’s voice.

Harry stormed in, disregarding Dumbledore’s double-take at his paint-covered form.

“What’s this about Malfoy being given asylum?” he said. “It’s absolute rubbish, we can’t trust him, Professor.”

“Harry, do you have any—”

“Proof?” Harry spat. “For five years I’ve been told that I need to prove Malfoy’s guilty of things he just gets away with, but this time I _do_ have proof, Professor. He fed me Amortentia a couple of weeks ago and I have at least fifty students who saw me under its influence. Hermione will tell you that he did it. She was the one who broke the potion’s effect.”

Dumbledore folded his glasses and set them on his desk. “This is a very serious allegation, Harry, and I assure you it will be given due attention in time,” he said, “but for now, we have a Horcrux to destroy. I assume that takes precedence.”

Harry wished he didn’t feel so chastised. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“Good.” Dumbledore stood and stepped gingerly down the stairs from his desk. Harry reached out instinctively, and Dumbledore steadied himself on Harry’s arm, patting his hand thankfully. Harry tried not to shudder when Dumbledore’s wizened flesh met his.

“Where are we going, Professor?” Harry asked as he and Dumbledore went out of the headmaster’s office and down the corridor.

“Somewhere we won’t be seen,” Dumbledore said. He led Harry to the nearest broom closet, cast “Alohomora,” and opened it.

“Oh,” Dumbledore said as two horrified Hufflepuffs looked up from unbuttoning each other’s shirts. “So sorry. Carry on.”

He shut the door.

“Perhaps we should find an unlocked closet, Headmaster,” Harry said, not looking at Dumbledore.

“Quite right, indeed, Harry,” Dumbledore said. They went down the hall a ways until they found an unoccupied broom closet. Dumbledore and Harry went inside, and Dumbledore said, “Hold on tight, Harry,” and then there was that horrible twist of Side-Along, and they were outside Grimmauld Place.

As they entered Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks were in the front hall awaiting them.

“Good to see you, Headmaster,” Kingsley said. Harry thanked him silently when he said nothing about the paint, choosing instead to nod and add, “Mr. Potter.”

“And good to see you looking so well, Kingsley,” Dumbledore said. “Please do call me Albus, you haven’t been my student for thirty years.”

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks said, shoving her hands in her pockets and nearly tripping over the rug.

The four of them went through the house, which, in Harry’s mind, still reeked of Sirius—the kitchen table where they’d laughed together, the sofa where they’d battled doxies, the staircase where he’d introduced Kreacher. They passed the tapestry room and he swallowed hard, thinking of Sirius’s face burned out of the wall by his own family, just as he’d been killed by his own cousin.

Malfoy’s sneering face came to his mind of a sudden, and Harry remembered he was Sirius’s first cousin once removed. He’d been on the tapestry when Sirius had shown it to him last year. Would Sirius’s mother have burned him out as well, for spying for Dumbledore? Or was Malfoy really a spy for Voldemort? Harry’s skin crawled. Why did Malfoy do this to him—send him into this tailspin of confusion and worry? Why did he even care?

“Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry said automatically, looking to Dumbledore. They’d entered a room he hadn’t been in much before—the parlor. Around them stood Lupin, who gave Harry a reassuring smile, Mad-Eye Moody, and—Harry’s lip curled despite himself—Snape. The harsh yellow light from the overhead lamps seemed wrong for the occasion, like a strange intrusion of reality into a dream. 

“Are you ready?” Dumbledore asked him, still holding tight to Harry’s arm.

Ah. At last. A question to which he actually knew the answer.

“Yes.”

Kingsley produced from a pocket inside his robes the locket, which he set on the table and then recoiled from as though it were a snake that was about to bite. Just seeing it set a buzzing in Harry’s ears, a weird sensation that made him shiver, as though his body was reacting viscerally, simultaneously pulling him closer and screaming to run. Dumbledore took out a little pouch, which Harry reached inside, feeling for all the world as though he was once again choosing his dragon in the Triwizard Tournament, and felt a pang of relief when he caught the handle of the sword of Godric Gryffindor. The pouch must have been Charmed.

“Now, Harry, we must open the locket for it to be destroyed,” Dumbledore said. “It will show you visions, attempt to hurt you, try everything it can to save its own life. But you must ignore it. Destroy the locket. Keep a single-minded focus.”

Harry nodded, his heart hammering, and hefted the sword in both hands.

Tonks stepped forward and, after a bit of fiddling, got the locket open.

Instead of the screaming and gore that Harry had expected, the locket shone a beam of light straight up into the air, and from it emerged a face—Hermione’s, bloody and dirty, wet with tears.

“Harry, no! Please stop!” she cried out. “Don’t do it!” 

Harry shook his head, but the voice was overpowering, cloying, like it was soaking him with some viscous fluid, making his vision blurred. Hermione was replaced with a wandless Ron, who cried out in fear, lifting his hands to his face, and Harry braced himself, but then—

Malfoy, looking terrified and cold, huddled into himself, wearing only rags, and on his bare left forearm the Dark Mark seethed and glowed, and he screamed—

Harry surged forward and struck the locket, a blow that made a dull whacking sound against the parlor table, and a whistling shriek issued forth from the schism, like air escaping from a balloon.

There was dead silence.

“Another part of the Dark Lord’s soul destroyed,” Snape said, eyeing Harry coldly, but Harry caught a glint of something unfamiliar in his eyes—interest? “He will be grieving and suspicious. I must go and reassure him.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore said.

Harry sank heavily into a chair. He let go of the sword, which stood alone on its side, its tip buried most of the way into the table.

Dumbledore removed it with a bit of wordless magic, wiped it down, and stowed it back in his pouch as Kingsley gathered the remnants of the locket and put them back in his pocket. All of them dispersed; Tonks ruffled his hair as she went, and Lupin gave him a concerned look but after a silent discussion with Dumbledore over Harry’s head left as well.

“Shall we away back to school, Harry?” Dumbledore asked him, extending an arm. “I think we can have a cup of tea together there.”

In the yellow artificial light of the parlor he looked almost jaundiced, monochromatic and weathered. Harry took the trembling hand and gave a last glance to the parlor table, still sliced open.

In an instant they were back in the broom closet, and Dumbledore stumbled. Harry steadied him, and the two of them exited into the hall, which was blessedly empty and dim.

Harry almost turned tail and ran when he saw the back of a familiar white-blond head in front of the griffin staircase, arguing with it in hushed tones.

“You absolute menace, Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to meet him here, isn’t that what I’ve told you? Biased against Slytherins, the whole lot of you—”

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m afraid the griffin will not answer, no matter how admirable your skills of oratory may be,” Dumbledore said, his voice hoarse.

Malfoy turned, and his face looked drawn and pinched, white as a sheet. “You’re here, Headmaster,” he said, only taken aback for a moment. “What was it you wished to discuss with me?”

“You shall see in a moment, my boy,” Dumbledore said, releasing Harry’s arm and opening the griffin-guarded staircase. Malfoy sneered at Harry. Harry sneered back, but he feared it wasn’t much of a competition both because of his relative lack of experience and the fact that he was still a little rattled from the vision the locket had given him, where Malfoy had been even thinner and paler than he was now, where the Dark Mark had lurked on his arm.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Potter? Not going to try and jump me again?” Malfoy muttered as they shoved their way up the stairs.

“You wish,” Harry said, and leaped through the door to the office first.


	7. Genes of Debatable Quality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading, kudos-ing, and commenting on my fics! I treasure each of your feedback. Please feel free to tell me if you have any ideas/prompts for me! Although next week is finals for me, I have a chapter waiting in the wings so hopefully my upload schedule won't be interrupted (despite some very inopportunely timed computer issues). Enjoy. Please.

One of the greatest strengths of Slytherin House was its members’ ability to waste time with great efficacy.

Draco reflected on this fact as he took his sixth bite of his chocolate truffle, which was now mostly melted on his plate, and watched Blaise out of the corner of his eye. 

When Blaise turned toward him, Draco quickly stuffed the rest of the truffle in his mouth and got to checking in on his minions. At the Ravenclaw table Boot still looked a bit too skinny, but other than that fine. But Summerby wasn’t at the Hufflepuff table.

Good. A distraction from his mission. 

Draco shook himself. _No_. He mustn’t revert to his normal state of evasion and division, forking tongues and paths. He had to do this. His life—and Theo’s, and Pansy’s, and so many others’—depended on it.

What a terrible thing, to have your neck in the grasp of one Draco Malfoy, who was expected to make an honest go at something in order to save it. 

Even if that honest go was at subterfuge. Draco vividly remembered when Dumbledore had told him, _You have one week to get information about one of the Horcruxes, Mr. Malfoy._ Remembered the joy on Potter’s face when he thought Draco would be caught out, the way his mouth curved with triumph and his eyes glowed. Draco refused to prove him right.

Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Draco followed Blaise as he left the Great Hall. The two of them slunk in near-unison out of the room, whereupon Blaise turned to Draco, his brow furrowed.

“What do you need, Draco?” he asked, and in his tone Draco recognized not the familiar jocularity of a childhood playmate but the measured cadence of caution, like drops from a perfectly controlled siphon.

Draco observed the meniscus and calculated he could apply a bit more pressure. He’d always been a dab hand at Potions, after all.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, trying to look gaunt and haunted, which wasn’t hard, because—much as he hated to admit it—he was, rather. “Blaise, I—know you have some connections with the Dark Lord. Professor Snape told me. And he told me he had direct orders to have me help you with your mission.”

This was a very thin line to walk. If Blaise told the Dark Lord, both Uncle Sev and Draco would surely be crucified. But if he bought the bluff…

Blaise swallowed, straightening. “Draco, I want to believe you, but—”

“Please,” Draco said, moving closer to him, hunching a bit. “You know my mother—well—I want to help her.”

As he’d expected, he had touched a nerve. Blaise stiffened, his eyebrows rising, and Draco felt a wave of sympathy and revulsion wash over him. So the Dark Lord had done something to Lady Isolde, something bad enough to make Blaise fear him this much.

Blaise glanced around them, then leaned in to whisper in Draco’s ear. “Meet me outside the Room of Requirement at five o’clock.”

Draco nodded tightly, and as they pulled apart Potter happened to stroll through the exit of the Great Hall.

Sneering at him, Draco said, “Oh, good morning, Potter. Sorry I haven’t got around to replying to your love note, I was writing my mum instead. But I suppose you haven’t got that to fill your time.”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Potter said, but as he shoved past them Draco could see something like sadness in his eyes, and against his entire being almost wanted to take the words back.

Almost. Until he saw Blaise laughing and he grinned. 

“Five o’clock,” Blaise reminded him in a low voice, then turned and began to slink off down the corridor.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

After classes finished Draco drank tea that was too hot and scarfed down a few biscuits and went up to the seventh floor three minutes early. Blaise showed up a minute later, looking composed from a distance, though Draco, who’d known him since they were children, could see the anxious set of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders.

Betraying a friend for the greater good. The exact opposite of what a Slytherin would normally do. Draco pushed away any feelings he might have had about it.

Blaise muttered something and the door to the Room materialized in the wall. Draco followed him inside, flinching when the door slammed shut.

He looked up and gasped. The Room was an endless dark space, filled with mountains and heaps of things, discarded and broken things, new and gleaming things, secret things that were never meant to see the light of day. Draco spotted a pair of underwear with his name and a heart inscribed on them in rhinestones and raised an eyebrow.

Before he could take it all in, Blaise was forging ahead, between the piles and under bridges of objects unknown. Draco followed as quickly as he could, and after a few minutes of trekking in silence through the Room they came to a large black cabinet. It looked vaguely familiar, and it only took Draco a few seconds of observation to realize why.

“Is this...the twin of the Vanishing Cabinet in—”

“Borgin and Burkes, yes,” Blaise said, looking at it with a mixture of disdain and proprietary pride. He placed a hand on it, inhaling deeply. “I’ve been fixing it.”

“Why?” Draco asked. He moved a bit closer and stopped when he saw Blaise’s eyes narrow.

“So that they can enter the school,” he said, hunching. “It should be ready in a few weeks.”

“Wow,” Draco breathed, genuinely impressed. Blaise had always been quicker than he in Charms. 

Blaise’s face relaxed a bit. For a moment he looked like Draco’s childhood friend, when they’d chased each other around the garden on toy brooms while their mothers laughed over cold glasses of wine. Now Narcissa Malfoy was in hiding and Lady Isolde was...well, who knew.

“But I have another mission,” he said, “and it’s even more important, the Dark Lord told me. I have to guard something here, in this room.”

“What is it?” Draco asked, leaning closer.

“I don’t know,” Blaise said, his hand remaining possessively on the Vanishing Cabinet.

And it seemed as though he was telling either the truth or a very good lie.

Draco’d hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this but it appeared as though he’d gotten everything he could without it.

He grimaced as he subtly pointed his wand at Blaise and whispered, “Legilimens.”

Plunging into Blaise’s mind was like diving into a labyrinth of ice-cold water, but Draco, who’d always been skilled in the arts of the mind, found his way to a locked door—locked by magic, he could see, perhaps to keep less-skilled Legilimens out, or perhaps to keep Blaise himself from fully being able to access the knowledge he held. Whatever was the case, Draco performed his best slither and got in.

Inside the room, which he couldn’t see very well, his peripheral vision blurred, was a huge ivory stand. Draco made his way closer, whispering voices making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and stood on tiptoe to see the top of it. Resting there, in a velvet-and-satin case, was a tiara—no, a diadem, with a huge sapphire glittering from its center. Draco reached out to touch it—

and a shockwave of sound shook him to the ground as he was abruptly thrown out of Blaise’s mind. In the real world, only a millisecond would’ve passed, and Draco took just a moment to adjust, not quite opening his eyes.

That moment could’ve cost him his life, because Blaise had his wand pointed straight at Draco and was just about to mouth a spell when—

“Petrificus Totalus!” came an all-too-familiar voice from behind him.

Blaise toppled to the ground, his hand still outstretched. Draco whirled around, wand at the ready, to find—

No one.

“Oh, sod off, Potter,” he mumbled.

Potter had the audacity to grin at him when he took off the Cloak, leaning back against a huge tower of stuff, which squeaked alarmingly. Potter didn’t appear to notice. Probably too busy with his visions of sugarplum fairies.

“And what the fuck are you doing here?” Draco crossed his arms.

“Saving your arse, apparently.”

“What, you didn’t trust me to do this on my own, so you decided to follow me?” Draco asked, his slight amusement turning to anger. Typical Potter.

Potter spread his hands. “To be fair...I did just keep you from getting hexed, so I was sort of right.”

He was still grinning.

“What’s so funny?” Draco huffed.

“Well, I came up here because I didn’t trust you,” Potter said. “And you were about to get yourself killed, so I can trust you now.”

“It’s that simple?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Potter admitted. “But it makes me feel a hell of a lot better. Did you find anything when you legilimens-ed him?”

“Yes,” Draco said, sniffing haughtily. “Not like it’s any of your business.”

He knelt beside Blaise to make sure he was unhurt, which he was, and that the Petrificus would hold, which it appeared it would. Potter was a nuisance but damn if he wasn’t a powerful wizard. Those two things might actually be codependent, come to think of it.

“Seeing as I’m the one who has to defeat Voldemort, it does actually seem like it is my business, a bit,” Potter said.

“And seeing as I’m the one whose arse is about to be whipped if I don’t get this information to Dumbledore, I really don’t give a damn,” Draco said. He tried to stand, put his weight wrong, and crumpled to the ground.

Potter was beside him before Draco could say anything. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Draco grumbled, waving off his hands, which seemed determined to grab hold of Draco’s shoulders. He was very warm. Of course Potter would be. 

Draco constantly ran cold.

Some people had all the luck.

“I just...the Legilimency always takes more out of me than I expect,” Draco grudgingly admitted. “Now...will you Levitate Blaise?”

“What are we going to do with him?” Potter asked, scrambling to his feet like an overexcited dog with too-big paws and casting _Wingardium Leviosa._

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything with him,” Draco said. “ _I_ am going to take him to Professor Dumbledore and bargain for his safety as well.”

Potter opened his mouth to protest and Draco shook his head. 

“Potter, for once, can you just accept that you don’t know everything about people, and not everything is always just good or bad?”

“Fine,” Potter said, watching Draco with some concern as he got shakily to his feet. “But I’m coming with you. You could pass out, you know.”

“I’m sure you speak from experience,” Draco said.

They ducked around piles, past massive mountains, and Draco considered the idea that somewhere in this room might be something that could vanquish the Dark Lord.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Potter.

Well. Two somethings.

“Look, Potter,” he said as they left the Room. “I—when I said that thing earlier, about your mum...that was just to get Blaise to trust me.”

“I figured,” Potter said.

“Right then.”

“Right.”

* * *

Draco had spent much of his life wondering why exactly Granger always looked so happy in the library by herself. Now he had his answer.

Once Harry Potter, boy wonder, Chosen One extraordinaire, eye-glistener with the ghosts of his past, scarface himself, latched onto you, he. Would. Not. Leave.

Potter went to Dumbledore’s office with Draco, where he stood behind Draco’s chair as though guarding him, something the old man seemed to find very amusing. Then he watched Draco as he Levitated the still-Petrified Blaise to the hospital wing, as though Draco was fragile. And now he was sitting with Draco beside Blaise’s bedside, waiting for him to revive.

“What is your problem?” Draco burst out after the fourth time he yawned and Potter jolted toward him as though attempting to catch him.

“Nothing,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

They sat in silence for a few minutes more.

“What you said about Zabini…” Potter began.

Draco sighed. He’d seen this coming a mile away.

“Potter, just because you were wrong about Blaise doesn’t mean you have to suddenly start pitying Slytherins.”

“I—well. I’d just never thought about it that way before.” Potter attempted to remove his hair from his face and failed. “It must be hard, when he has your family against you.”

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” Draco said.

“I know something about that, I suppose,” said Potter with a wry smile.

Observing him out of the corner of his eye, Draco let out a long breath. 

“Look, here—” He pulled his wand from his robes and held it up to Potter’s face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Potter yelped, scooting vigorously away from him.

“Would you just hold still?” Draco said, and did his best fringe charm, the one that always got his hair hanging stylishly over his forehead but never in his eyes.

Potter’s hair gave a vague whimper of shape and then flopped back down into his face again.

“You really are impossible,” Draco huffed.

“Bad genes,” Potter said, shrugging.

“Oh sure,” said Draco, not looking at his broad shoulders and bright eyes and full mouth and easy posture. “Bad genes, definitely.”

“Mm-mmm!” came from the bed, and Draco shot to his feet as first Blaise’s jaw, then his forehead, and finally his lips began to work again.

“Blaise! How are you feeling?” he said.

“Like I’ve just been betrayed,” Blaise told him. “Draco, what were you thinking? I have to do this, he’s got my mother—”

“Very well played making it wear off of his face first,” Draco said to Potter. “Now we have to listen to him blathering on for a half hour before we can hit each other and get it over with.”

To Blaise he said, “We’re going to figure it out. Dumbledore is talking to the Order, Blaise, Lady Isolde will be alright.”

Blaise’s hands jerked, and then one came to his face. Potter turned away, and Draco crawled on the bed beside his friend, looking away from his tears.

“I was so scared,” Blaise whispered, gripping the back of Draco’s head. “He—Draco, he—”

“It’s okay,” Draco said, wrapping his arms around Blaise. 

There was a photo of the two of them this way at age five, wrapped in each other as friends were wont to do, laughing instead of crying but very much the same. Draco remembered that feeling vaguely, as though they would never be apart.

“It’s going to be okay now,” he whispered, and after a beat added, “Do you want to hit me?”

“Very much, but maybe later,” Blaise said. “I don’t have feeling in my legs or torso right now so it’d be a fair fight.”

“Git,” Draco said, and pulled him closer.


	8. Mortal Danger Is Only Dangerous if You're Mortal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my last pre-written chapter for now, and just in time for finals week! I may have to skip a week or two in the near future and will be sure to update this chapter to inform you in advance. Hope everyone is safe and well. Enjoy. Please.

Harry Potter wouldn’t put much past Draco Malfoy. 

Harry Potter had spent nearly six years not putting much past Draco Malfoy.

His habitual suspicion of Malfoy notwithstanding, though, he was still a bit surprised when he walked into the Quidditch locker rooms before his solo practice to find Malfoy engaged in an embrace with Summerby, the Hufflepuff Seeker, who was sobbing into his chest.

Malfoy looked so uncomfortable Harry almost wanted to laugh, but he restrained himself. When Malfoy’s gray eyes met his over the top of Summerby’s head they took a moment to resolve themselves into their usual flinty glare. What had come before, Harry wondered? What did his eyes look like when they weren’t busy telling you they hated you? He thought it was something like quicksilver.

Harry realized he’d been standing there for a few moments and hastily backtracked out of the locker rooms. He stood around the corner from the entrance for a minute until a still-teary, but much more composed Summerby came out, followed after a moment by Malfoy, who looked around until he caught a glimpse of Harry.

“Don’t you dare say anything, Potter,” he said in what would have been a snarl if it weren’t so icy.

“Is she alright?” Harry asked.

“Like you’d care,” Malfoy said.

Harry bridled. “What’s that supposed to mean, then?”

“Don’t worry, Potter, I know what a burden it is for you to worry about anyone other than yourself,” Malfoy said, inclining his head. “Keep thinking about your dead parents, why don’t you, God knows no one else has any problems—”

“Malfoy—I don’t understand,” said Harry, who was appalled to find his eyes growing tight like he was about to cry himself. “What—”

But Malfoy was already gone, striding, still in his Quidditch robes, with that commanding, pretentious way he had back across the grounds toward the castle. Harry considered going after him.

He didn’t. Instead he plodded into the locker rooms to change.

His broom didn’t seem to want to fly that day.

* * *

When Harry got back to the tower he was still flushed and his head was pounding.

“Is everything alright, Harry?” Hermione asked, scrunching up her face at her parchment when he flopped down beside her.

She hadn’t even looked up.

“How—”

“You have a very specific breathing pattern and it changes based on minute emotional fluctuation,” Hermione told him, biting her lip and finally setting down her quill to focus on him.

“Nothing,” said Harry, who had been sworn to secrecy on the matter of the Horcruxes until his and Malfoy’s meeting with Dumbledore later that evening, and  _ urgh _ , he was going to have to see Malfoy in an hour.

Dumbledore had apparently been completely swamped with Order business for the past few days, and Harry had begrudgingly done some cramming for finals, all while wondering what Malfoy had found in Zabini’s mind. Perhaps the most interesting development that had come out of the entire ordeal was the truce that seemed to have sprung up between himself and Malfoy. They weren’t suddenly holding hands in the hallways and singing Celestina Warbeck songs together, but they’d stopped sniping at each other at random intervals, at least.

Until today.

“It’s nothing.”

Hermione gave him a wholly disbelieving look, but didn’t respond.

“Are we just not going to talk about Nott?” Harry put his feet up on the table, but his body was tense.

“He’s my...research assistant,” Hermione said. She kept making frenzied notes on a parchment, glancing from her thick Defense textbook to the scroll, her mouth a tight line. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, Hermione, did you get a Time Turner again this year? Because as far as I know you have a full class schedule and Intro to Hookups isn’t on it.”

“Good one, Harry,” Hermione told him with a wholly disingenuous laugh. Harry didn’t press the issue. Instead he sighed and went to go have a lie down before the meeting, which resulted in tossing and turning for half an hour before he finally got out of bed again, drank some water, and headed to Dumbledore’s office.

Malfoy was already there when he arrived, sprawled in a presumably Conjured emerald green armchair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Zabini sat beside him on a high-backed wooden chair, looking pensive, which was, annoyingly, yet another good look on him. Harry sat down in his usual chair, which had been shoved to the side, without looking at Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy has informed me that while he was investigating Mr. Zabini’s conduct last weekend, he was able to access some information about one of the Horcruxes. Mr. Zabini, are you able to willingly tell me more information?”

Zabini shook his head, his mouth growing tight.

“Then, with your consent, Mr. Zabini, I will perform Legilimency on you myself and attempt to find out more.”

“Yes, that’s alright,” Zabini said, and closed his eyes as Malfoy put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Dumbledore leveled his wand at Zabini and said clearly, “Legilimens.”

There was just a tiny pause during which Zabini flinched slightly. Then both their eyes flashed open, and Dumbledore nodded.

“Mr. Malfoy, I believe you know what you’re looking for,” he said. “The three of you may retrieve it. But please be careful.”

Malfoy nodded and the three of them turned to go, but Dumbledore held up a hand, and they paused.

“And, Mr. Malfoy, your friends who are waiting outside may accompany you, but only if they come in here to see me first. Harry, please take Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley with you; you can apprise them of the pertinent information on the way.”

With another curt nod, and only the slightest widening of his eyes indicating his surprise, Malfoy led the way out of the office.

When they came down the stairs Summerby, Boot, Nott, and Parkinson were all lounging in the hallway a respectable distance away, looking for all the world like a set of unusually attractive young dilettantes spending a Saturday afternoon whiling away time with innocently frivolous pursuits.

Malfoy pointed up the staircase and the four of them trooped up it without a word.

“Why are they here?” Harry asked. “We were told to keep this a secret.”

“I didn’t tell them what it was about, Potter, do you think I’m an absolute numbskull?” Malfoy said, slouching against a wall. “I wanted them here. They can be useful. Besides, they’re...my friends.”

Harry scoffed. Zabini glanced between the two of them and went down the corridor, presumably to the lavatory around the corner.

“Just because you hate Slytherins doesn’t mean we’re all terrible people,” Malfoy said.

Thinking of Malfoy’s Legilimency on Zabini, and Summerby’s sobs muffled into his chest, Harry nodded reluctantly. “You’re...you’re right.”

“Elspurn’s mother was killed last week,” Malfoy told him, not looking in his direction and instead staring out a stained-glass window across the corridor. “She was a member of the Order. Dumbledore told her she died with honor, but of course what does that matter? She’s dead. Elspurn came to me, she thought I’d understand. Meanwhile I’m sure you didn’t even know.”

Harry looked down at his feet, torn between being angry and apologetic. “Dumbledore doesn’t tell me this kind of thing. He says I’m too young.”

“Didn’t stop him from putting you in mortal danger for years on end,” Malfoy said, and when Harry’s gaze snapped back to him, one corner of his mouth was higher than the other, the kind of imperfect asymmetry Malfoy never permitted himself. 

Before he could reply, Malfoy’s—henchpeople? minions?...friends? came back down the staircase, and he turned his head away.

“I told you he’d be alright with it,” came Parkinson’s voice, sounding triumphant.

“All I’m saying is that his track record doesn’t indicate that—” Boot said as they exited the staircase, only to stop as they found Harry and Malfoy looking in opposite directions.

“You two look cozy,” Parkinson observed brightly, and Harry was amused to find Malfoy’s ears were going red.

Zabini’s footsteps echoed back down the corridor toward them.

Malfoy glared at Parkinson. “We’ve a Horcrux to find, fool witch. Shall we?”

“So remind me what exactly we’re looking for,” Harry said as they entered the Room. Ron and Hermione looked around the group with wide eyes; Hermione, oblivious to Nott’s longing looks, appeared as though she was noting everything down in her head, while Ron kept glaring at Parkinson and then looking away when she glared back. Harry sighed. He didn’t have time for this right now.

“A diadem, like a tiara,” Malfoy said, his jaw set. He held his hands atop his head, the tips of his slender fingers meeting in the front and his thumbs in the back. “There’s a massive sapphire in the center and it has ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure’ written on it.”

“Alright,” Harry said. “So let’s split up, spread out, and whoever finds it shoot up red sparks with your wand. But whatever you don’t touch it.”

“Why?” Boot asked, pushing up his glasses.

“You’ve seen Dumbledore’s hand, haven’t you?” Harry asked and went into the stacks without waiting for an answer. When he looked back, Ron and Hermione looked as though they were about to follow him, but eventually they went in a different direction. Harry was somewhat relieved. He needed to focus.

Zabini and Malfoy had barely entered the room at all; the Cabinet was only a few minutes’ walk from the entrance, and Harry passed it quickly. Before he’d gone much farther inside, though, he started to feel that horrible buzzing noise again, like nails on a chalkboard. He pulled his robes around himself, cracked his neck, and kept walking.

A few minutes more and Harry’s head was pounding. He was certainly going the right direction, but it appeared this Horcrux was putting up more of a fight than he’d expected. He stopped for a moment to bend over and catch his breath, and so when a figure nearly ran straight into him he stiffened and got his hand on his wand before he realized it was Malfoy.

“Merlin’s tits,” Harry grumbled, straightening up. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Malfoy clenched his jaw. “Sorry, Potter. I—heard a noise.”

“Yes, well. That was me.”

“You were making a whining noise?”

Harry grimaced. “Was I?”

“Potter...you look quite pale.” Malfoy, who looked annoyingly normal, reached hesitantly toward Harry, who moved away.

“You don’t feel that?”

“What?”

Harry peered at him before concluding he was probably telling the truth. “Nothing.”

He kept walking, wincing at the buzzing, and then realized that Malfoy hadn’t moved.

“Potter?”

“Yes?”

“Can I—well—”

Some things never changed.

“Slytherins,” Harry said under his breath, and added louder, “Come on, then.”

They only made it a few more minutes before the buzzing noise became almost unbearable. Harry’s eyes started to water.

“Let me guess,” Malfoy said. “You’re a terrible Occlumens, aren’t you, Potter?”

Harry spat something unintelligible at him.

“As I thought,” Malfoy said, looping an arm around his shoulders. “How far are we? Can you tell?”

“Close,” Harry gritted out. “Very close.”

“Alright,” Malfoy said. “ _ Accio  _ chair!” 

He dumped Harry into the armchair that came whizzing from one of the nearby piles, then began Summoning the Horcrux, starting in front of him and turning about an eighth of a circle each time.

Finally, once he was facing to his right, having turned 270 degrees, something silvery came flying out of a coil of rope and nearly hit Malfoy in the face.

It clanged onto the ground and Harry’s head started to throb even worse. Malfoy quickly pulled off his uniform sweater and bundled the Horcrux in it, which helped a bit.

“Here, don’t send the sparks,” Harry said, sitting up straight and feeling marginally better. “Just send a Patronus ‘round to tell them to meet us back outside.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, then down at his wand. “I—”

“Oh.” Harry swallowed. “Sorry. Here, I’ll do it.”

The stag that emerged from the tip of his wand was a bit shaky, but it bounced off with more vigor than Harry himself had at the moment. He stood, stretching, and Malfoy held the bundled sweater away from him, trying to put distance between them. The longer the diadem spent ensconced in the fabric, the weaker it grew, as though Malfoy was smothering it. Harry felt a vindictive pleasure.

“So,” he said. “How’s studying for finals going?”

“Sod off, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Just because we’re defeating the Dark Lord together doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

Harry rubbed his temples. “Just trying to diffuse the tension.”


	9. Blood Is Thicker Than Water, but Malfoys Drink Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of my non-prewritten chapters, so I may end up missing a few weeks in the near future. I'll make sure to notify you beforehand! For now, all is proceeding on schedule. We get some espionage action in this chapter, which I'm very excited for. Please give me any feedback! Love y'all. Enjoy. Please.

There were many things in this world that Draco Malfoy looked forward to. Sweets. Hookups. Getting a good score on a Potions exam. Seeing Potter in a state of visible discomfort.

Meeting up with Bellatrix Lestrange, or as he’d always called her Aunt Trixie, with a bunch of useless Slytherin impersonators in tow and his life on the line was not one of them.

_ Why did I switch sides _ ? Draco lamented as they arrived in Borgin and Burkes through the Vanishing Cabinet and Summerby stepped on his foot.  _ I could be sitting pretty with a skull on my arm and some house elf feeding me chocolates right now. Oh damn Potter, damn him! _

“Draco?” came Boot’s voice in the darkness. “Are we going to—disembark from the Cabinet, or…?”

Spitting something about Ravenclaws being too damn picky for their own good, Draco opened the Cabinet and the three of them fell out in a heap. As he picked himself up, he lamented ever letting them talk him into this.

* * *

ONE WEEK EARLIER

_ “No. Absolutely not.” _

_ “Draco, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but you don’t have the best track record with doing things on your own.” Boot crossed his arms, sitting up straight on the bed. _

_ “Besides, it’s a terrible idea to send anyone in alone with that woman, even her nephew,” Summerby added from where she was sprawled across the carpet of Draco’s room. _

_ “Exactly. Thank you, Elspurn.” _

_ “And it’s an even more terrible idea to send strangers, let alone a goddamn Hufflepuff!” Draco was  _ this  _ close to tearing his hair out. Summerby was literally wearing a pink lace top and heart-shaped earrings, how the hell did she think she could survive an espionage mission with Aunt Trixie? _

_ Boot adjusted his glasses. “The other Slytherins can’t come with you, they either have things to do of their own—” _

_ “Theo and Blaise—” Summerby said. _

_ “—or they’re not allowed—” _

_ “Pansy—” _

_ “—or, quite frankly, they’re too stupid and would get you killed.” _

_ “Goes without saying,” said Summerby, and after a moment’s pause, added, “But it’s Crabbe and Goyle, just to be clear.” _

_ “We agreed that we’d help you with anything you needed to do, did we not?” Boot said. “That extends to the war effort. Besides, I can’t speak for Elspurn, but I want to defeat Voldemort as much as anyone.” _

_ Summerby’s dark eyes grew hard. “He killed my mother, Terry.” _

_ Draco leaned over in his chair and put his cool hands on his face, which was unusually warm. “We can ask Dumbledore. But his word is final.” _

_ It had taken enough to just get Dumbledore to put Draco on this mission. Even then he’d insisted that they wait until after Draco’s birthday, which had been the day before. Finals were over, classes were done, and the Hogwarts Express would be leaving in two days. But Draco, Granger, Weasley, Pansy, Theo, Blaise, Summerby, Boot, and of course Potter wouldn’t be on it. They’d be Flooed directly to an Order safe house.  _

_ (Dumbledore had originally wanted to send Potter back to his aunt and uncle’s house, but with Voldemort weakened by the loss of the diadem, and after a concerted and resounding protest that the Boy Who Lived didn’t need to be starved for the summer—Draco had learned some rather horrifying things about Potter’s childhood in that process—he’d relented.) _

_ “Yes!” Summerby said, sitting up. “Let’s go now.” _

_ “He won’t say yes,” Draco said confidently. _

* * *

PRESENT DAY

Although current context—e.g. Summerby cooing at an assassin hawk in a carved onyx cage and Boot taking furious notes on his hand with a Muggle pen while looking at the labels of dark artifacts—precluded the necessity of dispensing this information, Dumbledore had said yes.

If Draco had ever, for even a passing moment, stopped questioning Dumbledore’s sanity, that moment was over.

“Come on, idiots,” he grumbled, and led them out of Borgin and Burkes, greeting the cashier with a gruff, “Morning, Roger.”

Boot and Summerby behaved exactly as stupidly as he expected them to, staring at everything. Boot had now moved to making notes up his forearm and was almost at his elbow. If he kept going like this he’d end up with two full sleeves by the time they got to Gringotts.

Draco clenched his teeth, grabbed each of them by the sleeve of their new robes (black, with real gold stitching), and dragged them into a side alley. 

“What do you two morons think you’re doing?” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think you understand how important it is that you’re convincing. If Aunt Trixie gets even the slightest whiff of anything suspicious, we’re all dead and the Dark Lord will stop at nothing to kill more of the people you love. We’ll probably bring Pansy, Theo, and Blaise down with us, not to mention Uncle Sev. They’re already wary of me because of my parents.”

Both of him were staring at him. Summerby brought up her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and he saw something glinting at her wrist.

“Please, for God’s sake—”

He grabbed the pen out of Boot’s hand and stored it in his robes. Then he took Summerby’s hand and unclasped the—

“—Charm bracelet, really, Summerby?” Tucking that into his pocket as well, Draco glared at her. “You’re lucky I didn’t burn it. Now, here, since we didn’t have any time before we left—”

With a few quick swipes of his wand, he brought Boot’s fringe off his face, slicking it up into a curve over his forehead, and removed his glasses. Then he cinched Summerby’s robes around the waist, ruffled her hair, and pulled a tube of black lipstick out of his robes.

“Here, put that on.”

“Draco, I can’t see,” Boot complained.

Draco pointed to his head. “You see this massive platinum blond blob?”

Boot nodded.

“Follow it, and try to look like you know what you’re doing.”

“This is fun,” Summerby said, grinning with her newly dark lips, and upon seeing the look on Draco’s face, added in a forced monotone, “I mean, I hate this, I don’t care about anything, down with the muggleborns.”

“You may have to say ‘Mudblood,’” Draco told her. “Sorry, Terry, I don’t use it myself.”

Summerby blanched. “No. I can’t.”

“Try and keep your face that way,” Draco said. “It makes you look like you haven’t been in the sun for a year. Now come on.”

They made it to the entrance of Knockturn Alley without much trouble, and as they exited Draco saw a hooded figure under the entrance to Eeylops opposite. Diagon was mostly deserted, since it was midday on a Tuesday, and they crossed the Alley to the hooded figure. As he approached Draco saw a gaunt jawline and dark lips emerge from beneath the hood, and she pushed it back enough for him to catch a glimpse of her huge eyes. It looked like she too had lost a lot of weight. Draco wondered whether any Death Eaters could have a healthy lifestyle or if they all had to look like they hadn’t eaten in months.

“Trix,” Draco said, stepping into her...cold and weird embrace, and letting go as soon as possible. “Aunt Trixie, thank you. I—I want to do what I can.”

Once again, as her long dirty fingernails dug into his back, he asked himself how he’d gotten into this mess.

* * *

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

_ “What is it, Professor?” Potter asked as he and Draco took seats in front of Dumbledore’s desk. For some reason the two of them had become the two he summoned to his office and then directed to inform the others of what was going on. _

_ “We’ve received intelligence that there may be something of interest in the Lestrange vault,” Dumbledore said. _

_ “Uh-oh,” Draco muttered under his breath, and then added louder, “You want me to go see Aunt Trixie, don’t you?” _

_ Dumbledore slid a piece of parchment to him. “Here is a template for a letter you’re to send to her, should you choose to perform this mission. You’re to tell her that you want to be involved with helping to protect the Dark Lord and that you need to go with her into her vault at Gringotts in order to be linked by family blood to the vault. This will mean that if the vault is infiltrated you will know. It will also allow you to access the vault on your own. It is a dangerous line to walk, and Madam Lestrange will need to ask the Dark Lord for permission to allow you to do it, but if I know her she will be eager to welcome family back into the fold.” _

_ There was a moment’s pause during which Draco felt his entire life compress itself into one tiny molecule which rested on the tip of his tongue. It was one thing to do Order work in Hogwarts. It was another entirely to see a dangerous Death Eater and perform blood magic as an act of espionage. _

_ “Do I have a choice?” he said finally. _

_ “You always have a choice, my boy,” said Dumbledore, smiling. _

_ Draco let his eyes, for just a moment, flick to Potter, who was the kind of person who had no restraint, whose life expressed itself in wild swathes of action. From this angle his unruly dark hair covered most of his face but Draco could see that his body was tense, his jaw tight.  _

_ “I’ll do it.” _

* * *

PRESENT DAY

“Who are they?” Aunt Trixie asked, pointing to the other two.

“These are my minions, ah—Winterley and...Sock,” Draco said, trying not to let his cringe be seen on his face. He subtly slapped Summerby’s right hand, which had been coming up instinctively to try and shake Aunt Trixie’s. Boot was looking in mostly the right direction, so nothing catastrophic had happened just yet.

He still really couldn’t believe that Trix had agreed to the blood magic. It was partly a relief and partly terrifying, since it seemed to mean that the Dark Lord thought he would be somehow useful.

“Good to see you’ve gotten yourself some new minions,” Aunt Trixie said approvingly. “Seemed like you’d grown out of the other brutes.”

Draco bit his tongue on a retort about how it seemed like she’d grown out of having a husband, and laughed. Aunt Trixie turned on her heel and headed toward Gringotts, and the three of them hustled after her, robes swishing. At least they  _ sounded  _ about right.

The white marble of Gringotts looked menacing more than anything else, all long shadows and contrasts. Their shoes clicked loudly against the floor of the entrance hall and Draco prayed Summerby wouldn’t fall in her new stilettos.

Each goblin looked up in turn as they approached. Their eyes widened when they saw Trix and then they hurriedly looked back down again. Draco struggled against being impressed and mostly failed. They were still related, after all.

“Madam Lestrange,” said the head goblin at the end of the hall, bowing deeply. “What can we do for you today?”

“I wish to attach a blood designee to my vault,” said Aunt Trixie, gesturing to Draco.

“Of course, Madam,” said the goblin, hopping down from his stool and beckoning another goblin toward them. “Gregor will take care of that for you.”

Gregor, who had floppy brown hair and looked terrified, nodded. “Please follow me, madam,” he said.

“Wait here a moment, Draco,” Aunt Trixie told him.

As soon as they were out of sight down the corridor, Boot edged closer to Draco and muttered, “Sock?”

Despite his fear of impending death—or perhaps because of it—Draco had the bizarre urge to burst out laughing.

“Keep it together, Boot, I was improvising.”

“I thought Slytherins were supposed to be good at this shit,” Summerby muttered.

“Shut up, Winterley. Now listen, you both will probably have to stay here. Do you have your Galleons?”

They both nodded. 

“Good. I’ll message you if anything goes wrong. No news is good news, got it? But if I don’t send you an OK message in the next hour, call Dumbledore.”

Draco turned back forward and squared his shoulders. There was a little whispering behind him, and then a hand slipped into each of his. Boot’s hand was delicate, a little calloused, while Summerby’s was wide and hot. They squeezed and then released him.

“Don’t blow our cover, morons,” Draco said, but his heart beat slower and steadier. Slytherins didn’t do this kind of thing.

When Aunt Trixie and Gregor returned, as expected, Draco was directed to leave “Sock” and “Winterley” in the foyer. The three of them clambered into a mine cart, which was as exhilarating and terrifying as it had been the other times Draco had come here—with his father, and he remembered those times clear as day, had gone over them again and again as he had all his memories of Lucius Malfoy until they played smooth and worn in his mind like river-lapped stones.

They arrived quickly at the Lestrange vault, where a few goblins were busy crafting some massive chains.

“What—” Draco asked, staring.

“We’re getting ready to implement some extra security,” Gregor explained, and led them up a set of stairs to the entrance to the vault.

“We don’t need to go inside, do we?” Draco asked, trying to act as though he didn’t care.

“No, we won’t be,” Aunt Trixie said. “This should go quickly.”

“If you could each make a diagonal cut to the palm,” Gregor said, reaching out to the door and inscribing a complex set of lines with a fingernail that left thin blue trails shimmering on the metal; the sound made Draco shiver as he pulled out his wand and took a deep breath.

Aunt Trixie just sliced open her palm with a knife and didn’t flinch. Draco winced as he  _ Diffindo- _ ed across his hand, a shallow cut opening after the tip of his wand like a wake behind a boat.

Gregor indicated a point on the door, which appeared to be the center of the shape he’d drawn, and said, “Here, please.”

First, without hesitation, Aunt Trixie smeared her palm in a circular motion. The blue lines fizzed, grew stronger. Draco stepped forward and did the same, trying to ignore the popping and brightening of the lines as he did so. He was shaking slightly, and when he retracted his hand he wrapped his arms around himself.

“Young master Malfoy, you will be able to access the vault whenever you like,” said Gregor, and his voice came to Draco like he was underwater. “If someone attempts to infiltrate, you both will be notified.”

Draco nodded, grateful that his naturally pale complexion hid when he looked ashen, and stumbled back to the cart. His heart felt as though it was living permanently behind his voice box.

“You may feel sick for a few days, but it’s just an adjustment period as your body accepts the bond,” said Gregor as they came back into the main foyer.

_ That would’ve been nice to know beforehand _ , Draco thought drily, but he blamed Aunt Trixie and really, could he have expected that the woman would be considerate of his health?

As soon as they reached the outside she gave him another rather horrifying hug, told him she’d be in touch, and Disapparated, leaving Draco to run over and retch into a trash can as Boot and Summerby patted his back.

“Was it terrible?” Boot asked eagerly, trying to be subtle as he ran his hands over Draco’s robes, searching for his pen.

“It was fine, but I feel like I got hit by a hippogriff,” Draco said. “And I would know.”


	10. Comings and Goings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:  
> 1\. Listen to Sawayama by Rina Sawayama. Best album of the year. I also think some songs are particularly relevant to this fic ("Chosen Family" comes to mind for this chapter).  
> 2\. While it and FTNIM are totally different fics, if you like "Harry and Draco have to be close for medical reasons, etc.", check out "Way Down We Go" by xiaq.  
> 3\. I'm not super happy with this chapter so it may undergo a bit of revision later but I wanted to get it up on time.  
> 4\. Thanks so much for reading, kudos, and comments! It really means a lot.  
> 5\. Enjoy. Please.

For many Hogwarts students, getting called to Albus Dumbledore’s office would be an Event. It would be the highlight or nadir of their year. It might mean being commended for an excellent mark or a good performance in Quidditch. It might mean they were in some deep, deep shit.

Harry, whose resting state was being commended and in some deep, deep shit at the same time, would quite frankly be happy to never again get called up the swiveling staircase, to never again warily eye the griffin as he said the password, to never again have to open the door to see the hundreds of shimmering instruments, the Pensieve lurking like a sleeping coiled-up wyrm in the corner, Dumbledore himself sitting behind his desk. The whole room was black and silver and gray, like a mausoleum, a temple. Fawkes, when he perched near Dumbledore’s right hand, brought the only warmth into the room.

In just a few hours, they’d be packed off to the safe house. Hopefully Harry would go a few months without being in this room again.

“What do you need, Professor?” Harry asked, crossing the room to the chair in front of the desk.

“Has Mr. Malfoy given you any information on his mission?” Dumbledore asked him in lieu of greeting.

Harry blinked. “I haven’t really seen him.” Malfoy had gotten back late the previous day and had spent the night in the hospital wing. Harry had...tried to visit him, yes, but Madam Pomfrey had shooed him away, saying something about magic signatures.

Dumbledore wouldn’t meet his eyes. Harry’s neck began to itch. Had something really bad happened to Malfoy? He was alarmed to find that the thought made his heart start to pound. At this point, though, there was no use getting weird about his and Malfoy’s newfound truce.

“Mr. Malfoy succeeded in accessing the vault,” Dumbledore said. “He should be able to procure the fifth Horcrux whenever we need it.”

“Great,” Harry said. “Why don’t we do it now? And destroy the diadem? The sooner the better, Professor, isn’t that right? The quicker we weaken Voldemort, the fewer people he kills.”

“I’m afraid that may not be best, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “If we take the cup, Voldemort will immediately know there are spies in his ranks.”

A cry came from outside and Fawkes came swooping through the window. Instead of landing on his usual perch, though, he settled on the back of Harry’s seat, his long tail feathers grazing Harry’s shoulder.

“Professor,” Harry said. “What’s the sixth Horcrux?”

“The snake,” said Dumbledore. “Nagini.”

“Then we kill it when we kill Voldemort,” Harry said. “We can do it all quickly, that way Voldemort won’t even have time to hunt out any spies. Professor, you can kill him, you know you can.”

But Dumbledore was shaking his head. “I cannot, Harry,” he said. “I cannot be the one to kill him.”

“Professor, what aren’t you telling me?” Harry asked. He could feel his teeth starting to chatter.

Dumbledore stood from his chair and made his shaky way to the window, where clouds were gathering for a summer rain that Harry might never see.

“There was a seventh Horcrux, Harry,” he said. “A seventh, accidental Horcrux that Voldemort made when he almost died that night in Godric’s Hollow. A seventh Horcrux with strong magic fortified by a codependency on Voldemort’s soul, a seventh Horcrux that is still growing into a man. A seventh Horcrux that is different from the others, because it could change everything, but also the same, because it, too, must be destroyed for Voldemort to die.”

In that moment, Harry hated him so fiercely he could scream. He hated Dumbledore not for keeping this secret from him, not for leading him to believe he would one day live on and be happy, not for any of the millions of moments when he’d trusted him.

He hated Dumbledore because when he told Harry he’d have to die, he didn’t even turn around and look him in the eye.

As he ran down the rotating staircase and pushed past the griffin, Harry hoped that he would never have to step foot in that office again.

Running had always been so easy. Even before he knew he was a wizard, he’d run from Dudley, from Uncle Vernon, from resentment and fear. As a child, Harry had been thin and frightened. Now he was nearly a man, and his body had changed, but had the fear?

Harry went down several flights of stairs, not thinking about anything but making it outdoors, and when he burst outside, staring up at the blue sky, he kept going.

The idea that a beautiful day can exist on which someone is condemned to death had never crossed Harry’s mind. Now he supposed that it was because no matter how blue the sky or how green the earth, no matter how the air might smell like spring or water might sigh and hum, a day on which someone is condemned to death is never beautiful. It is merely an excuse, a diversion.

_ Now what?  _ he asked himself as he slowed and bent to breathe.  _ Ron and Hermione?  _ He pictured Hermione resolving to do research, Ron’s endless questions.  _ Harry, are you alright? _

This time he avoided Madam Pomfrey, went straight into the hospital wing’s care room, and bellowed, “Malfoy, you git, where are you?”

“Potter?” came a weird, weak little voice from one of the curtained-off beds.

Harry went over and shoved aside the curtain. Malfoy looked small and pale in the bed, even his usually coiffed hair limp and delicate.

“What happened to  _ you _ ?”

“Blood magic side effects,” Malfoy said, coughing. “I don’t think it was supposed to be this bad. I remember reading something about intention mattering for blood magic, though, or maybe it’s because Aunt Trixie and I aren’t nuclear family. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” Harry said. “I’m going to have to die soon and I wanted to let you know, thought it’d make you feel better.”

Malfoy tried to sit bolt upright in bed and succeeded in coming up halfway before he collapsed again. “ _ What?” _

“Albus fucking Dumbledore has just informed me that I am a Horcrux, and that I will have to be ‘destroyed’ before Voldemort can die,” Harry said.

When Malfoy launched himself out of the bed, feeling for the floor with his hands, Harry grabbed him the shoulders and hauled him bodily back under the blankets, sitting down on the bed with him.

“Use your head, Malfoy,” he said. “If we both die, who’ll tell Ron he’s a git?”

“This is the last straw,” Malfoy spat, clawing uselessly at Harry’s forearms, which held him on the bed. “Listen, my father and I disagreed about a lot of things, but disdain for Dumbledore was the backbone of our relationship. As usual, I was right.”

Harry tried to restrain his laugh and failed. Malfoy took the moment of weakness as an opportunity to try for a leap out of the bed again, and almost succeeded.

“What’s so funny?” he huffed, resigning himself to being confined to the bed.

“Nothing,” Harry said, and that was true.

Malfoy fished in his pocket and withdrew a Galleon, which he tapped a few times and then stowed again.

“Boot should be along with both our minions,” he said. “We’ll need a plan.”

“Malfoy, what’s to plan?” Harry said, sighing. “I’m going to have to die. This is how Horcruxes work. There’s no other way.”

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “You clearly haven’t spent much time with Slytherins. There’s always another way.”

“Mr. Malfoy!” came from behind them, and Harry leaped off the bed as he turned to face Madam Pomfrey.

“I was entertaining a visitor,” Malfoy said, looking perfectly unruffled. “And actually, I feel much better now.”

Harry turned back to him to find that, indeed, there was a bit more color in his face (at least by Malfoy standards) and he was sitting up on his own.

“I--I don’t understand,” Madam Pomfrey said, pushing Harry aside and waving her wand across Malfoy’s face and torso. “I prohibited visitors because their magical signatures can inhibit the healing of yours after the blood magic weakened it.”

“Isn’t that dependent on the compatibility of the magical signatures, though, Madam Pomfrey?” came a reliably swotty voice, and Harry smiled when Hermione poked her head inside the curtains. “If two people had a high compatibility, their magical signatures’ interaction could facilitate healing.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Madam Pomfrey stood up straight. “You do appear to be a little healthier, Mr. Malfoy. You may entertain your guests for fifteen minutes. Then you need to rest.”

Parkinson and Zabini immediately clambered onto the bed next to Malfoy, who, to Harry’s horror, was eyeing Hermione with a look of dawning understanding on his excruciatingly pointy face.

“What were you talking about, Granger?” he asked as Boot took furious notes and Summerby set a cat on his lap, murmuring something about “therapy animals.”

“I think Harry should sit by you, Malfoy,” said Hermione, “but we don’t have time to explain now. Why did you call us?”

Harry took a seat beside Malfoy, who frowned but didn’t say anything. If there was one thing you could say for Slytherins, it was that they had impeccable timing.

Malfoy, his eyes hard again, gestured to Harry, who reluctantly started to explain his meeting with Dumbledore, and almost started laughing at the predictable reactions he was faced with. 

Hermione, her brows furrowed, began comparing notes with Boot while Nott looked over their shoulders. Ron asked several good-natured questions before Parkinson, of whom Harry was beginning to have a higher and higher opinion, punched him in the shoulder and told him to shut it.

After Harry insisted for about the eighth time that this was what Dumbledore had said and it was the only option, they finally started paying attention.

That was, Hermione started paying attention enough to say, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harry. You aren’t going to die. I won’t allow it. Dumbledore doesn’t know everything.”

“Will you be transferred with the rest of us?” Zabini finally asked Malfoy just before the fifteen minutes were up.

“I think so,” Malfoy said. “Madam Pomfrey said I should be alright to move.”

“Boot, we only have an hour or so before the Portkey leaves,” Hermione said, giving Boot a meaningful look.

“And then we may never be back at this school again,” Boot agreed. “So sad.”

The two of them turned and started out of the hospital wing.

“What--” Harry started.

“They’re going to go steal books from the Restricted Section,” Nott told him, smiling fondly as he stood from his cross-legged position on the floor.

“Theo?”

“I’m right behind you,” Nott called to Hermione, following her and Boot to the exit.

“Harry, Pansy--I mean Parkinson--and I--well, we were thinking of going to get some Potions ingredients as well, just in case,” Ron said.

“Go on then,” Harry said. “That’s a good idea, actually.”

“Well, if everyone else is going to do things, I’m going to go to the kitchens,” Summerby said. “Defeating the Dark Lord is hungry work and we might want some snacks to get us started at the safe house. Zabini, care to join me?”

“I suppose,” Zabini said, sauntering after her. “Do they make cannoli? I do miss home.”

* * *

By the time everyone had assembled outside McGonagall’s office to take the Floo, Hermione, Nott, and Boot had finished alphabetizing their pilfered library, Zabini and Summerby were levitating boxes of food, and Ron and Parkinson looked like they were trying not to let anything explode.

Malfoy was looking quite a bit better, and only had to lean on Harry to walk from the hospital wing to the Great Hall. Madam Pomfrey told him to stay close to Harry, because for whatever reason it seemed to be helping, and to keep taking some potions she’d given him.

Their trunks had already been sent out, so the nine of them filed into McGonagall’s office and each flashed away in a burst of green fire. They didn’t actually know where they were going; apparently a temporary link had been established that would be broken as soon as the ninth of them Flooed. Dumbledore hadn’t appeared since their meeting that morning, and Harry was grateful for that. He didn’t want to see him, and frankly he thought that Dumbledore showing up and expecting everything to be fine would be a terrible plan, but so was what he’d done before, so Harry really had no idea what was going on in that man’s mind.

“Harry, are you doing alright?” Hermione whispered to him as they watched Parkinson disappear in a burst of green.

“Fine,” said Harry. “Really. I--Hermione, I don’t want to get everyone’s hopes up about this--”

“You’re such an idiot,” Hermione told him hotly, managing to inject sizzling disdain into each quiet syllable. “If you don’t live, what will happen? You think anyone else can inspire people to stand up to You-Know-Who? If you’re gone, do you think we can get anyone to mobilize to kill him and the snake? Moreover,  _ can  _ anyone else do it? It’s got to be you, Harry. We all know that. Loving you like we do really has nothing to do with this.”

She stormed over to the Floo and clambered in.

Harry said nothing.

“I think a few years ago I thought that I’d have to be dead before I’d say this, but Granger’s right,” said Malfoy, who was leaning against the wall beside him.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” said Harry.

“Ah, everything’s back to normal then,” Malfoy said, tottering over to the Floo after Hermione.

“You next, mate,” Ron told Harry, gesturing to the fireplace, and Harry stepped in.

The experience of Floo travel was always strange for Harry as a child: the idea that other people’s homes were all connected together, that they returned there at the end of the day, and the idea that each person had a home of their own, a life of their own, filled with people they loved--a life that was predictable, and at least sometimes happy.

When he came spilling out the other end of the Floo Hermione and Malfoy hauled him up off the floor.

“You always fall out like you’re in a hurry, Harry,” Hermione told him as she cleaned his glasses.

Harry put them back on, and blinked around at the near-empty room they were standing in--a sofa took up some of the space, but they’d need to get more chairs. Hermione kept levitating books onto a bookshelf, and beside her Boot and Nott did the same. Directly ahead was a small kitchen, where Summerby was putting on a kettle and Zabini was unpacking the food they’d gotten from the house-elves.

Ron slid out of the Floo behind Harry, and turned to help Parkinson out a second after.

“That’s all of us,” Ron told her, and started brushing off her shoulders as she muttered protests.

“Well, Potter, it’s not much, is it?” Malfoy said, but Harry’s glasses were newly clean, and he could see his little smile.


	11. Coreopsus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> 1\. Yes. I missed last week. I am in the United States and...with everything going on I genuinely just forgot. Sorry about that.  
> 2\. I have another album rec this week: Never Gonna Dance Again, Act 2 by Taemin. It's a perfect album, he's art, period. I did also write some of this chapter to it and there's a song called Pansy, which is oddly apropos.  
> 3\. I'm not sure how to TW this chapter, since there's nothing specific that happens to warn against, but it's a bit darker than some of the others, so please keep that in mind. If you have any concerns or questions feel free to let me know.  
> 4\. I hope everyone is taking care of themselves and that this can bring you a bit of fun in this absolutely mind-boggling time.  
> 5\. Enjoy. Please.

Lurking and slinking had always been Draco’s favored pursuits, and that hadn’t changed. Regardless of which side of a war he was on, he was still a Slytherin, and if that meant looking through a helpful hole in the wall he’d discovered between the bedroom he shared with Theo and Blaise and the living room to spy on Potter and Granger at any given time, he’d do it.

It was rather a good thing that he didn’t experience any kind of internal conflict on that point, seeing as he was being called to do it now.

“Boot, do you have that copy of--oh, hello, Harry,” Granger said as she wandered into the living room and looked up from some book that was probably titled  _ Evil and Ancient Magick That No Respectable Witche or Wizarde Should Knowest, Thou Varlet! _

“Hello, Hermione,” said Potter, who was currently engaged in the highly fascinating pursuit of lying on his back on the dining table and staring up at the ceiling. Draco snorted.

“What are you...looking at?” she asked, untangling a quill from her hair.

“Nothing,” Potter said. “I’m just waiting for Remus and Snape to arrive.”

“Have you eaten today, Harry?” Granger asked, clambering up on the table beside him.

Potter waved a hand. “Summerby shoved something at me a couple of hours ago.”

“Fine,” Granger said absently, stroking his arm as she turned her page.

“You really think we can convince them?” Potter asked, fixing his gaze again on the ceiling.

“I think there’s a good chance,” Granger said. “Remus, at least, won’t want you dead for no good reason. Snape probably wouldn’t care much but he’s surprised me before. In my opinion, the quicker we can destroy the Horcruxes, the better, and it doesn’t make sense to wait because of you.”

“If anything goes wrong, kill me, and then Voldemort’s as good as dead anyway,” Potter said grimly.

“Oh, Harry, we wouldn’t,” Granger said, and Potter turned his gaze to her to find her rubbing at her eyes. “Don’t say that. It sounds like you’ve given up. We’ve only been looking for a day, we have loads of books left to find a way to save you.”

This was disgusting. Someone needed to save the Gryffindors from their incorrigible emotionality. Draco got up from his peephole and headed to the door to the dining room.

“It’s alright, Hermione,” Potter was saying as he entered the threshhold. “I--”

“Sod off, Potter,” Draco told him as he stepped fully into the room.

Potter and Granger both gave him vaguely bewildered looks, which he thoroughly ignored. His parents had always been rather surprised that he was around, so Draco was used to reminding people that he did, in fact, walk the earth. Accommodating other people’s confusion at the fact of his existence had never gotten him anywhere. 

“Go find something useful to do with yourself instead of moping around contemplating your own death. I’ve done that, and it’s not much fun after a while, especially when you’ve got to stop eating,” Draco said, sitting down in one of the chairs beside the table. Someone needed to stop mollycoddling this man.

“I see you’re fully recovered,” Potter told him, sitting up on his elbows. “Have you been eating more or something?”

So it was obvious, then, the fact that in only a few days Draco could tell he looked a little less thin, his skin a little less devoid of color. It was strange, but perhaps he had been eating more.

“Probably, what with the damned Hufflepuff about the place,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Can’t believe I ever thought it was a good idea to recruit the woman. Granger, speaking of my–friends–have you succeeded in fully converting Theo to the swotty side yet?”

“If that’s your way of inquiring as to our progress on research, I’m afraid we haven’t found much yet,” Granger told him. “Horcruxes appear to be very evil magic that comes from murder, but there isn’t much about how exactly to put them in or take them out of a vessel.”

“I may be able to help with that,” came a voice from the corner, and Potter leaped to his feet beside the table as Sev fully emerged from the Floo.

“Uncle Sev,” said Draco, letting out a long breath at the sight of an adult he actually trusted. “Good to see you.”

“You’re looking well, Draco,” said Sev, softening slightly as he looked on Draco’s less-pointy-than-usual face.

“Thank you,” Draco said. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

“Yes, well,” said Sev, and sat down on the sofa as the fire flared to life again and Lupin stumbled out of it, brushing his patched coat free of ash.

“Good to see you all,” Lupin told them, taking a seat on the chair opposite Snape. “If you could summon the others?”

Potter sent a Patronus out the door of the living room with a message, and Remus watched it go.

“Very well done, Harry,” he said. “Now, before the others get here, why did you call us here?”

“If I may,” Sev interjected, shifting in his seat, “I assume that Professor Dumbledore has informed Harry of his Horcrux status.”

“His  _ what _ ?” Lupin asked, his eyes flicking from Sev to Harry. Draco felt a certain smug vindication at having been told about this information before many members of the order. Call him a Death Eater. Hah. He was, as usual, better than most people, a condition that he preferred and was happy to see restored.

“It appears that I am a Horcrux,” Potter said, “a fact that Professor Snape was clearly aware of before today.”

“Much as you love to assume the worst of me, Mr. Potter, I tried to convince Professor Dumbledore to inform you of this fact but he refused,” Sev said. “As his spy I had little say in the matter.”

Boot and Theo came in from the other room then, followed by the others.

“We were discussing our plan to try and remove the Horcrux from Harry,” Granger said.

“Professor Dumbledore seems to be under the impression that it can’t be done,” Sev said.

“Well, Professor Dumbledore is wrong,” Draco said, and added upon seeing the matching looks of surprise on Lupin and Sev’s faces, “I mean, you can’t be shocked that I don’t agree with him, can you?”

“I suppose not,” Sev said, and turned back to Granger. “I tend to believe that Professor Dumbledore is overlooking some possible steps to remove the Horcrux from Mr. Potter because it could involve potentially dangerous magic.”

“He doesn’t think it’s worth it?” Granger asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Professor Dumbledore has spent the last hundred years attempting to atone for something he did while experimenting with magic. He isn’t about to start doing it again now.” The corner of Sev’s lip curled. “With that said, I have no such qualms.”

“So–what can we do?” Granger motioned to Boot, but he was already taking notes. Draco felt a weird surge of pride for his minion.

“It appears that when the Dark Lord binds a portion of his soul to an object, the soul actually strengthens it, defends it from destruction, which is why Horcruxes are so hard to destroy. My theory is that Mr. Potter has benefited in much the same way–his magic has become stronger. In a way, the Horcrux has functioned much like a blood-magic soul bond would, a self-enforcing loop of power,” Sev said.

Draco was getting a sinking feeling in his stomach, and it didn’t have so much to do with what exactly Sev was saying but with what he’d heard at Gringotts last week.

“Uncle Sev–” he said. “With blood-magic–one becomes reliant, correct? And if the bond is broken, then–”

“Therein lies the problem,” Sev said, sighing. “Mr. Potter’s magical core may be dependent on the Horcrux. And if it is removed–he may not survive.”

* * *

The next day directions came from the Order–assignments and projects. Most of them would be working on ways to curb raids and attacks on communities–Draco and Blaise cracking information chains from the inside, Weasley and Pansy working with the Order’s strategists to anticipate their next attacks. Summerby, who turned out to have a talent for Charms, was drafted to work on curse-breaking. Granger, Boot, and Theo were asked to continue doing research on Potter’s condition.

Potter himself was expected to stay in the safe house.

As expected, he threw a massive hissy fit. Draco didn’t even want to describe the details of exactly how pissed off Potter was, and all the self-sacrificial whinging they were all subjected to. He locked that away in a dark corner of his mind, of which there were so many that a Muggle brain scan would probably reveal a bunch of swirling masses of darkness in his brain, covered in chains and marked KEEP OUT NO PEEPUL ALOWD (those were from his early childhood and even Draco didn’t know what was in them).

To make a long story short, Potter was in such a state that Draco and Blaise had to sneak out for their first mission in the dead of night to avoid him.

The aforementioned ‘dead of night’ being in Slytherin-speak, e.g.: seven in the morning.

“Are you nervous to see Lady Lestrange again?” Blaise asked him as they walked briskly to their Portkey.

“Why should I be?” Draco asked. “I’m only hiding from her that I took a false blood oath and that I’m on the opposite side of a war. I’m still family, she’d kill me quickly.”

“Right,” Blaise said, squaring his shoulders. “Whereas me?”

“Torture,” Draco said. “Definitely lots and lots of torture.”

The Portkey, a cracked teapot, was hidden amongst a stand of pines in the corner of a nearby park. Draco guessed it was probably layered with several Notice-me-Nots. He checked his watch: seven-thirteen.

“It leaves in two minutes, Blaise, go ahead and grab on,” he said. Each of them took a grip on the pot, and when it began to draw them away, Draco held on tight.

He’d never learned how to land properly, and neither had Blaise, so they crashed down with an unceremonious “OOF” when the Portkey dropped them.

Draco opened his eyes to find an albino peacock staring him in the eye.

“Pollux!” he gasped, sitting up and reaching out a tentative hand.   
Beside him, Blaise sat up too. “I didn’t realize we were coming–”

Draco eyed the dusty white marble hall, the rolling hills of garden now gone to seed, the overgrown hedges and cracked fountains, with distaste. “Home.”

They both got up and brushed themselves off with as much aristocratic lack of fervor as they could muster. They were inside the gates, so it was a straight shot up the garden path to the massive front door. They trickled up the paved walkway toward the extremely powerful dark sorceress who awaited them inside as though they were heading in for a spot of tea.

“I suppose Aunt Trixie must have taken over the old haunt since Mother and Father are dead, or otherwise indisposed,” said Draco, looking down his nose at his own childhood home. “The place looks a mess.”

“One day it’ll be yours again, and then you can clean it up,” said Blaise, peering with a sneer into an algae-filled pond.

Draco laughed. “If it’s ever mine again,” he said, looking around to make sure no one could hear, “I’ll demolish it.”

A creak came from ahead of them and a figure emerged in a hood.

“Coreopsus!” she called, laughing and waving. “Toddle on in, I’ve made biscuits.”

Draco and Blaise had a brief conversation with their eyes that resulted in both of them being even more confused than they had been initially and kept on up the steps toward her.

“Trix–is everything alright?” Draco asked.

“Of course, Cor,” she said, and when she turned her face up to him he started. Her eyes were blank and empty-looking, and welling with tears. She seemed not thinner than before–she had always been gaunt–but somehow older, frailer, as though she were sick instead of starving. He was reminded of what he had heard about the Muggle disease called consumption.

“I know that cheese is your favorite, Cor, so I’ve made you some,” Trixie said, leading them into the massive manor kitchen, where the oven was on fire. Draco immediately leaped over to it and shut it off, but Trixie appeared not to notice. She opened the oven door and levitated several blackened lumps off one of the racks, depositing them on plates and handing them to Blaise and Draco. Her eyes kept welling, spilling, tear tracks emblazoned permanently on her cheeks.

“Who is Cor, Trixie?” Draco asked her as he followed her into the parlor and took a biscuit from the plate. He didn’t want to upset her until he knew what kind of fit she was in.

“You’ve always been a funny one,” she answered, perching on an armchair with her knees tucked to her chest, giggling and shoving a biscuit into her mouth. “I remember, you’ve always been the funny one, you and Narcissa both, before you left, but I told her you’d come back, she was always quiet after but I told her you would. Where is Cissy now, Cor, do you know?”

Draco shook his head, a lump growing in his throat.

“You all left me,” Trixie said, pouting. “First you, then ‘Dromeda, then Cissy. I’m all alone now. I only have  _ him  _ and  _ he– _ ”

She shook for a moment, shivering in her seat. For that second her eyes seemed to grow and shrink, pupils dilating. Then she returned to her blank, still stare.

“What did he do to you?” Draco asked, reaching a hand toward her as one might to a cornered animal. He didn’t need to ask who  _ he  _ was. Who else could it be?

“I was so lonely,” Trixie said, sighing. “I’m glad you’re back now. We can get Dromeda and Cissy to come back, and it can be just like old times, Cor, we can play in the garden like old times.”

Did he have a choice? Perhaps. Was it ethical? Probably not. Was it  _ dangerous _ ? Certainly. But Draco had always been good at calculated risk. So, once again, he removed his wand from his robes and with a warning glance at Blaise muttered, “Legilimens.”

He’d performed the spell multiple times before, had been in a few different minds. But nothing could have prepared him for the mind of Bellatrix Lestrange. Dead ends and shadowy corners abounded, and he found himself sifting through years of nonsense piled up like so much trash. But as his focus sharpened, he managed to find his way into a hallway, shabby and dark, with a door at the end. Draco dashed down it and slammed through the door–

and was almost blinded by sunlight. As his vision adjusted, he saw neatly kept gardens and flowers everywhere. The giggling of children met his ears, and first one girl, then another, then finally a third stumbled into his field of vision.

Draco’s breath caught. The oldest, brown-haired and thoughtful-looking, was about the age to go off to Hogwarts. The youngest, with a mop of dark curls, was clinging to her hand. The third, following behind, was immediately recognizable to Draco–her straight dark hair, elegant face, and dancer’s frame. When she turned he saw that he was correct–she was a much younger Narcissa Malfoy–well, Narcissa Black at this time.

She turned away from him, as she always had.

“Cor!” she called behind instead, and Draco followed her gaze as a fourth child dashed out from a stand of elms–a little boy, blond instead of dark-haired. A little boy whose face made Draco shiver.

It couldn’t be him. But standing before Draco was a boy who so closely resembled himself at six or seven that he squinted, blinked. Coreopsus. How had his mother never told him about the fourth Black sibling?

Little Trixie in the memory turned then toward Draco, and in her large eyes he saw a sweet remembrance, longing even in the moment. Perhaps she knew that this would be a memory to return to someday.

Then Draco experienced a sudden popping sensation, as though a plug had been pulled out of a tank, and he felt himself being shoved out of her mind, pulled back through the hallway, through the debris of decades, through the entropy and sickness of Trixie’s life. That perfect memory was gone.

When he came back to himself, Trixie had stood and was advancing on him, her wand held loosely in one hand. Even in her weakened state he knew she was deadly but he couldn’t make himself move.

“Expelliarmus!” came a voice from the corner, and Trixie’s wand flew from her hand.

“Oh no,” Draco sighed. “Not  _ again _ . This is too embarrassing.”


	12. Malfoy Might Be Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Not much to say this week other than I hope you're doing well and taking care of yourselves! Thank you to everyone who's reading, commenting, kudos-ing, and any other applicable gerunds. Enjoy. Please.

JUNE 20, 11:31 PM

Harry supposed that in the end it was, sort of, technically, in at least one sense, his fault that Malfoy was gone.

It was, at least in one sense, his fault that he was stuck here alone in the house, waiting for the pain in his scar and sick feeling that he thought would come when they destroyed the diadem.

That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. And it certainly didn’t mean that he would do the reading that Hermione had assigned him.

He glared at the stack of books sitting on the coffee table. Of course he understood that the research was important, it was just that he didn’t feel very qualified to do it. So here he was, an almost-seventeen-year-old boy, on the sofa, regretting pretty much everything.

Dinner was still on the dining table, uneaten. Harry knew he was sulking, knew he had the inclination and the mood to do so, but could nonetheless not stop himself. He was useless, when wasn’t he supposed to be useful? It had been years since he’d thought of himself as anything but a liability, and with the news he was a Horcrux he was now officially not only a liability but a dangerous one. Harry was sick and tired of everyone treating him like a child. He was nearly an adult now, and had been almost killed many times, and his head hurt.

Not to mention the fact from which he’d been distracting himself by brooding. 

Malfoy might be dead.

JUNE 20, 8:03 AM

Harry supposed that in the end it was, sort of, technically, in at least one sense, his fault that Malfoy was upset.

In his defense, given the opportunity to Disarm his aunt, he’d do it in a heartbeat, but he supposed not everyone’s family was like his.

He was interrupted from his musings on the nature of filial relationships by Malfoy’s voice.

“Potter? What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be back at the safe house–Aunt Trixie, no!”

Malfoy dived forward toward Bellatrix, and Harry saw with horror that her trembling right hand was moving toward her left forearm. He saw it as if in slow motion: unable to lift his own wand in time, and Malfoy unable to reach her before she pressed a finger to the writhing Dark Mark that made Harry’s head ring with the acrid signature of its magic.

“No,” Malfoy whispered, and turning to Harry, said, “Potter–”

“He’s coming, isn’t he?” Harry said, horror blooming in his stomach.

“Aunt Trixie, tell him not to come,” Malfoy said, kneeling to her. “Trix, it’s me, Draco, tell him–”

Zabini went to Malfoy’s side, looking back at Harry as he did. Bellatrix looked up at the two of them with bleary eyes. “Draco?”

“Yes, Draco, Narcissa’s son–”

“Cissy–”

“Yes–”

“I can’t stop him,” she whispered as Malfoy clasped both her thin hands in his own elegant ones. “I had to call him, Draco, I’m sorry, tell Cissy–tell her–”

She trailed off, looking blankly down at the floor.

“I’m sorry, too, Trix,” Malfoy said, and pointing his wand at her, said, “Stupefy.”

He didn’t get up.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” Harry asked. “We have to go.”

But Malfoy shook his head. “Potter, you and Blaise have to go. It’ll raise too much suspicion if I’m gone.”

“I’m not leaving you,” said Zabini.

“Don’t be an idiot, Blaise,” Malfoy said. “I’m the only one they know is here. Potter, Stun me, then Obliviate Trix. I’m a good enough Occlumens to keep the Dark Lord out, at least for a while, but she isn’t right now. When he comes he’ll be angry but I can tell him you Stunned us and got away, he shouldn’t kill us yet, he’ll think us useful. Now do it and go.”

“Malfoy, I can’t,” Harry said, feeling tears prick at the backs of his eyes, a hideous rounded pressure.

Malfoy got to his feet at last and swept over to Harry, grabbing for his wand. “Granger said our magical signatures are similar. I bet I could use your wand to some effect, Potter. Do you want me to try? He’ll be here any minute.”

“Fine! I’ll do it.” Harry gritted his teeth, leveling his wand at Malfoy and observing with the certain cool detachment that comes from panic that even a few months before he would have been thrilled to do this, but now it left a kind of weight in his stomach that he wasn’t sure could be lifted. He was fully aware that he was about to leave Malfoy in a situation that could so easily lead to his death.

“Stupefy.”

Malfoy’s body hit the floor quietly, or perhaps it was that the sudden shooting pain in Harry’s scar drowned out any sound.

“Potter?” came Zabini’s voice from far away.

“He’s here,” Harry managed to scrape out, trying to get a better grip on his wand.

Zabini cursed, pointed his wand at Bellatrix, and said, “Obliviate.”

Harry remembered Malfoy saying something about Zabini being gifted at Charms and thanked everything that it was true.

“Grab on to me, Potter,” Zabini told him. “We don’t have time to get to the Portkey.”

As Zabini Apparated away, Harry caught Malfoy’s frozen eyes and mouthed,  _ I’m sorry. _

JUNE 20, 8:10 AM

“What were you thinking, Harry?” Hermione asked, brandishing the rolled-up newspaper once again above her head and glaring at him.

Harry guarded his face with his hands and groaned. “I know, it was terrible of me, Hermione, but what do we do now?”

Nott approached Hermione from behind and eased the newspaper out of her hand. Harry shot him a grateful look.

“Now you take some time to think about your actions,” Hermione said, looking sourly at Nott and crossing her arms. “Did you not consider when you left that not only were you endangering yourself, you were also endangering Draco, Blaise and the entire war effort?”

“Since when are they Draco and Blaise?” Harry grumbled.

“Since you decided to risk their lives!” Hermione dropped into an armchair opposite Harry. “Now, what do we know?”

“We know that Potter decided to follow us without permission,” Zabini said, stepping out of the fireplace and leveling a cool look at Harry. “Lady Lestrange was somehow compromised, she kept calling Draco by the wrong name. Draco Legilimens-ed her, but I don’t know what he found, he didn’t have time to say. We left him there with her. I was just at Hogwarts speaking to Dumbledore, Professor Snape will go and look after Draco. The Dark Lord shouldn’t keep him for long.”

“So Dumbledore thinks Malfoy will be alright?” Harry asked, straightening.

“He believes so,” Zabini said. He dusted himself off and took a seat on one of the sofas. “Then again, there’s never any telling what the Dark Lord will do.”

“What if we created a distraction?” Harry said. “Something to take Voldemort’s attention, he might let Malfoy go more quickly.”

“I think you’ve done enough, Harry,” Hermione said with a reproving look, but Harry caught Zabini and Nott’s exchanged glance above her head.

“What?” he asked. “Is that a good idea?”

“Well, it’s an idea,” Zabini said. “And the other thing I was going to tell you is that Dumbledore has agreed to destroy the diadem. He thinks the cup is enough collateral against the Dark Lord coming after Potter.”

“So if we make a strategic leak of information on how we plan to destroy the diadem, that could catch Voldemort’s attention,” Harry said.

“Way ahead of you, Potter,” said Parkinson as Apparated into the room at Ron’s side. “We were just at Grimmauld. Professor Snape briefed everyone on what happened with Draco. He’s going to inform the Dark Lord that we will destroy the diadem tonight at midnight, which we will.”

“So...won’t he catch us then?” Harry asked blankly.

Ron shook his head. “We won’t tell him where; we’ll break up into groups and head to different safe houses that he can’t access. Hopefully he’ll let Malfoy go so he can come after us. Then we destroy the diadem, and Snape won’t have lied to Voldemort.”

“But Potter,” Parkinson told him sternly, “you will be staying here. No ifs, ands, or buts this time. The Order is concerned that as we continue to destroy Horcruxes yours might start to react badly.”

Harry sighed. He was on pretty thin ice already.

JUNE 20, 11:44 PM

So here he was, sitting. And waiting. The stack of books eyed him–literally, the top one had a pair of rolling eyes in its spine. Harry eyed them back. There was an uneasy knot of anticipation in his stomach. He remembered the terrible buzzing pain when they’d discovered the diadem, the gross discomfort of the locket being destroyed. Searching around in his mind, he found those threads, the horrible feeling of familiarity with the Horcruxes. He might as well prepare for the destruction of the diadem tonight. Perhaps if he could just cut off those feelings, or tuck them away–

Something buzzed in the back of his head, something like one magnet sticking to another.

Harry jumped, and then because he was a Gryffindor, after all, prodded it again. Another buzz. This time he didn’t pull away so quickly, but let the feeling simmer. It wasn’t entirely...bad, and in fact was very familiar, as though he’d been having this sensation for years and hadn’t noticed.

Snape had said something about codependency on the Horcrux, Harry’s magical core being sustained by it. So–perhaps if he could tap into it–he could–

Harry let himself experience the buzzing, bringing it into the forefront of his mind, tasting it gingerly. It started to extend into his limbs, down his spine, and when it reached his hands Harry held them up in front of his face. They didn’t  _ look  _ any different, but he knew that there was something  _ inside  _ that was distinctly different.

Now, Harry Potter had had a long and distinguished career of making stupid choices, but this one might have been one of the stupidest. He had a feeling about the Horcrux–a feeling that he could conquer it, could subsume it, if necessary. So he closed his eyes and let the buzzing feeling guide him forward.

_ How do I find out more about you?  _ he asked it.  _ How do I learn about you?  _

And his body moved.

It started with a few shaky steps, but the buzzing sensation continued as he walked forward, and his hands started feeling around the bookshelf in front of him.

Harry was oddly calm. It was like being half asleep: he  _ could  _ move, if he wanted, but if he didn’t, just held still, his body moved for him. It guided his hands across the bookshelf, but evidently wasn’t very good on the fingers front, because it just knocked a book from the shelf.

Opening his eyes, Harry quickly drew the buzzing back, pushing it into a corner of his mind. He’d probably deal with that later in a nightmare but who cared for the moment because on the rug was a book.

It was small, with a plain gray cover that had rounded silver-filigreed corners. Harry knelt toward it and picked it up with one hand, flipping open the front cover to reveal–

He recoiled. On the first page was a diagram of something that looked–almost like a fetus covered in blood, but with horrible long arms and legs. Its open eyes were white, its mouth gaping.

Swallowing hard, Harry flipped the page. Most of the other pages were covered in thin slanting writing. There were a few more diagrams, mostly with complicated runes dotting their important points. 

That was when something flipped inside him and he was awash in emotion and pain. Harry realized as he collapsed to the floor, holding his head, that he’d forgotten entirely about the destruction of the diadem, and now his fellow Horcrux was holding him accountable. He could feel it screaming inside him, clawing to be released from the prison that was being destroyed with it inside.

“Potter!” came a distant voice, and someone was shaking him, pulling at his body on the floor. “Potter, are you alright?”

Harry tried to speak and failed. The worst seemed to be over, but his head was still throbbing.

Cool hands came to his face, one cupping his cheek and the other tipping a vial to his lips. Harry’s head cleared a bit, and he blinked to find Malfoy standing over him. He had a bruise on one cheek, but otherwise seemed unhurt.

“Malfoy,” he croaked. “What happened?”

“You can’t seem to go five minutes without getting yourself into a spot of bother, is what happened,” Malfoy said, brushing off his knees and lugging Harry onto the sofa. He tucked the vial in his pocket; Harry guessed it was a Calming Draught or something of the sort.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, fine,” Malfoy told him. “You know us Dark wizards, torture is nothing to–”

“ _ Torture _ ?” Harry grabbed his wrist.

“I’m joking,” Malfoy said, sitting down on the sofa beside him. “They didn’t do much to me. But Trix...well. She’s gone. He killed her.”

“Malfoy–I’m sorry,” Harry said, stricken. “I–really, I am. It’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Potter.” Malfoy looked tired, but his voice was fierce. “How could you say that? It’s all  _ his  _ fault, the bastard. He took your family too.”

Harry was completely at a loss for what to say. A terrible weight had settled in his stomach. What would Hermione do?

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?” Malfoy turned to him, stretching out his slender limbs.

“Do you want a hug?”

“What kind of Gryffindor shite–no, I do not want a hug.” Malfoy gave a little shiver. “I’m affronted by the offer.”

“How about a drink?”

“That’s more like it.”


End file.
